Let the Dead Be Dead
by polski-doodle
Summary: Everything goes wrong for Vladimir in the last few weeks of 1989. Caught in the middle of a revolution, a family he's no longer wanted in, and his uncertain future, he looks for safety and stability in an unlikely place. He finds it in someone who is no longer of this world. (1990's human AU with robul undertones)
1. Let's Go Crazy

**EDIT 4/12/20: MAJOR CHAPTER UPDATES/REWRITES**

 **: major edits to chapters 3-6**

 **: rewrites of every chapter**

 **: no edits affect continuity, but some details have been edited and a minor plot point may confuse those of you who haven't read the updated version**

 **: new chapters should be up starting on 4/18/20**

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 **A little note for you (yes, you!) before this gets started:**

 **: Human names are used. Aurel is the name I gave Moldova, Eliot is Luxembourg, Ekaterina/Katya is Ukraine, Konstantin/Kosta is Bulgaria, and I'm using Erzsébet instead of Elizabeta/Elizaveta for Hungary. All other names are canon.**

 **: The slur "gypsy" is used profusely. As a half Roma person myself, I do not encourage anyone to use this word. Although many Roma people (especially Roma Americans) use the word to describe themselves, it can still be incredibly harmful. It is used here in historical context.**

 **: Several homophobic slurs are used. Again, these are being used in historical context.**

 **: This fic contains several themes you may find uncomfortable, including: domestic abuse, a description of a mass shooting, and suicide.**

 **: Thank you for reading through this, you are very cool :)**

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 _chapter one / let's go crazy / bucharest, dec. 11, 1989_

The king of messing things up returns to his castle with a black eye and a cowlick where his head rested against the bathtub while he slept.

It's a couple minutes past seven when Vladimir shoves his key in the lock and shoulders open the front door. He slides off his shoes and pulls the door closed behind him without a sound. The living room is empty, but the TV is on and yesterday's newspaper is splayed out on the table next to a half-empty cup of coffee. Vladimir takes a small step forward, pressing himself up against the wall before peeking through the doorway into the kitchen. The only thing there to greet him is a carton of milk left out on the counter. From the back of the apartment, he hears the shower turn on.

He runs through his escape plan a final time.

1\. Acquire wallet without getting caught

2\. Get on metro

3\. ?

Vladimir knows better than to believe he'll make it past step one; step two is a vain hope, and step three is unattainable, so there's no need for him to waste his time coming up with it. But it's always good to be prepared.

Taking a final precautionary glance about the living room, Vladimir half-runs, half-walks to his bedroom. He throws his bedroom door open, eases it shut, and wedges a chair underneath the handle. When he's sure he's hearing his heartbeat drumming in his ears and not footsteps, he takes a deep breath and slumps to the floor.

"Dad?" Aurel sits up in bed and scrubs his eyes with the heels of his palms. When he pulls his hands away and sees his half-brother sitting in a sad puddle on the floor, his face falls.

"You are not seeing anything right now," Vladimir says with a threatening jab of his finger, made a thousand times less menacing by the sorry state he's in. "This is all a dream."

"I'm not going to snitch on you." Aurel snuggles back into bed again, pulling the blankets up around his chin. "Did you have fun at your stupid party?"

"No. Where's my wallet?" Vladimir asks, going over to their shared desk in the corner. The desk is separated by a strip of tape – Vladimir's side is a mess of textbooks and homework he's forgotten to turn in, while Aurel's side is a battlefield of toys and drawings, its carnage spilling over onto Vladimir's half. Yesterday he'd thrown his wallet on the desk without watching where it fell, which means it could be buried beneath a pile of Aurel's junk already. He grabs a piece of the clutter and starts pushing things off the edge of the desk.

"Not my problem," Aurel says.

"You're the one who makes a big mess in here, so it is your problem."

" _You're_ the one who lost it."

" _You're_ the one who can't put their shit away." Vladimir sweeps a herd of action figures onto the floor; limbs, heads, and miniature guns scatter in every direction.

"You're breaking them!" Aurel shrieks as he leaps out of bed. He rushes to the plastic carcasses of ninjas and soldiers, scrapes their remains into a pile, and beginning the delicate task of reassembling them right in Vladimir's path of frantic searching. Getting around Aurel requires much more skill and precision than Vladimir, hungover and battered, has.

So it isn't much of a surprise when he tries to step over Aurel and knees the boy in the mouth.

"Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry." Vladimir kneels beside his half-brother and puts his hand over the boy's mouth. Vladimir's stepfather responds faster to Aurel crying than to his own name, and Aurel knows this and has no problems using it against Vladimir.

"You're a…dick," Aurel says between sobs, his voice smothered in Vladimir's palm.

"Aurel. Aurică." Vladimir pulls his brother closer, pushing the boy's head down to his chest in what he hopes Aurel finds a comforting gesture but is really a better attempt at stifling his sobs. "I'm sorry you were in my way. Don't tell Sadik. I'm already in enough trouble."

"You did…it on purpose! You _hate_ me!" Aurel tries to squirm away and Vladimir puts him in a gentle headlock. Aurel kicks and writhes, digging his chubby fingers into Vladimir's arm.

"I'll buy you anything you want at Obor." Vladimir dips his head to whisper in Aurel's ear. "Anything I can afford. But only if you be good and go back to bed."

Aurel considers the value of each option with narrowed, tear-filled eyes. On one hand, he could pick out anything he wants at the Obor market, the best place to find real _Star Wars_ and He-Man figures from beyond the Iron Curtain. And on the other hand, he could have the immediate satisfaction of seeing Vladimir get thrown up against a wall and screamed at. Vladimir's only chance for survival is if Aurel has suddenly developed morals. Or maybe if he really wants a new _Star Wars_ figure.

"Your wallet was on your bed the whole time," Aurel says. "Let me go."

"Promise you'll go back to bed."

Aurel heaves an overdramatic sigh. " _You_ promise you take me to Obor."

"I promise. All you have to do is cover for me. And no snitching."

"Snitches get stitches," Aurel says.

"Good boy." Vladimir eases his grip on Aurel, not quite letting him go in case he starts to shout for his dad. Aurel seizes the opportunity and knees Vladimir in the stomach, then scurries out of Vladimir's arms and into his bed. He pulls every blanket and pillow up around him in defense, holding out a toy gun with a shaking hand.

Vladimir curls into himself, hiding his face in his hands as he struggles not to cry, pass out, vomit, or do anything generally embarrassing in front of a ten-year-old. The pain in his stomach overrides his senses at first, then fades into a warm, heavy ache. He unfolds himself and rolls onto his back, taking deep breaths so he doesn't get up and strangle Aurel.

"Why would you do that?" Vladimir says. "I wasn't even doing anything."

"You left me alone last night," Aurel says, seemingly unaware of the pain he's caused. "What happened to you?"

"You kicked me in the stomach." Vladimir tilts his head back to glare at Aurel.

"I meant what happened to you last night, stupid."

Vladimir, in the frenzied search for his wallet, had forgotten about the fight. He reaches up with a tentative hand to touch the bruised skin around his eye, hoping it was only a nightmare. He winces as he presses into the bruise – it is still there, and he can't imagine it looks any better than it did last night. "I made a few bad choices and got into a fight."

"Cool. You look like shit."

"Yeah. I feel like shit. Don't use that word."

"I'll say whatever I want to. Um, I'm sorry that I kicked you, then."

"No, you're not."

Everything in Vladimir is telling him to get up and leave before he's out of time. His stepfather must have heard their scuffle and will be here any moment. This is the worst he's done in months, and no amount of lying and emotional manipulation will cover up a black eye. He won't walk out of a confrontation with Sadik unharmed. And yet, he can't bring himself to get up again. His body is so tired, confused, and injured that he'd rather face the wrath of his stepfather than move.

He hears the mattress creak as Aurel climbs out of bed. Soft footsteps cross the room and Aurel appears by Vladimir's side. He holds out Vladimir's wallet and drops it onto his stomach.

"Thanks. I need to go," Vladimir says without moving.

Aurel kicks Vladimir's arm the way kids poke at dead animals with sticks. "Are you coming to school?"

"I can't go to school like this."

"Did Gilbert beat you up again?" Aurel asks.

"Yeah," Vladimir says. "Please don't tell Sadik. If he asks you, tell him I went out with Erzsébet and I spent the night at her boyfriend's. Don't say anything else."

Aurel sits down beside Vladimir, putting his hand on Vladimir's shoulder. "Dad is going to kill you," Aurel says with the wisdom of a sage and the grace of a ten-year-old boy. "He said when you came home he would break your legs so you couldn't run off for a long time."

"That's fucked up."

Aurel shrugs. "I'm just telling you what he said. He also said he wanted to kick you out and make you live in the sewers. And then he said," – here Aurel lowers his voice to a whisper – " _fuck_ , a lot."

"Great. Thanks for this encouraging talk. It's really helping."

"Are you coming home tonight?"

Vladimir hides his face in his hands. "Maybe? I could stay somewhere else again. I feel like Sadik is only going to get more pissed with me if I do." He peeks out of his fingers at Aurel. "What do you think I should do?"

"It's not worth it. He's already so mad that if you wait, he'll kill you for real," Aurel says.

"Why are you right? You're like, ten. You can barely read." Vladimir pushes himself upright, tucking his wallet into his jacket pocket. "I'll see you tonight, then. See if you can calm Sadik down a bit before I come home. Be cute or something."

Aurel reaches over to their desk and takes Vladimir's Walkman and a translucent purple cassette. "Here," he says, holding them out to Vladimir like an offering to a god. A useless, reckless, pathetic half-brother of a god.

A faint smile tugs at Vladimir's mouth as he takes the Walkman from Aurel's outstretched hand and puts it in his pocket next to his wallet. "Thanks. You're the best half-brother I could have."

"You're literally the worst," Aurel says. He's blushing, as he's entered the stage of childhood where having feelings is embarrassing. "I wish I could skip, too."

"Sadik would have a stroke. Although, that wouldn't be half-bad," Vladimir says, preparing himself for the dash to the stairwell. On a regular sneak-out, he'd use the fire escape; if he tried to go down the steep stairs, he'd probably fall to his death. And although Sadik would be more than happy to be rid of him, he doesn't want Aurel to have the luxury of a room to himself (and of course he'd feel bad about dying and making everyone live through the trauma of a family death, but right now he's mad at Aurel for kicking him and isn't taking the long term effects of death into his consideration).

Vladimir pulls the chair out from under the handle and takes a few deep breaths. His head is already swimming and he still has three flights of stairs to run down, maybe with a furious stepfather on his heels. He turns the doorknob with a slow, even movement, pulling the door open inch by inch. When the gap is large enough for him to fit through, he steps out into the hallway and sprints for the front door.

He doesn't make it ten steps before his vision goes black and his legs give out.

He falls.

His head cracks against the floor.

Two strong arms wrap around his waist and pull him up.

Vladimir lets himself be dragged into the living room, hiding his face from his stepfather. Sadik sets him down on the couch: not as gentle as he should have but not as rough as he could have, the perfect amount of _you-are-an-embarrassment-to-me-but-I-still-worry-about-you_. Vladimir pulls his sweater over his head, knowing Sadik saw the black eye and the burns. The rough wool smells like smoke and alcohol, and the burnt edge of the sleeve scratches at his wrist.

He stays like this for minutes, his face buried in the sweater. Sadik sits down by Vladimir's feet, and through the little holes in the sweater, Vladimir sees him trying to figure out what to say and how to comfort his stepson. His hand hovers above Vladimir's leg. He pulls away.

How long will Sadik wait for him to speak? Vladimir can't see the clock on the wall. It feels like years have gone by. Vladimir's eyes grow heavy and he wrenches himself out of sleep by forcing himself to panic.

 _Sadik is going to kill you. Come on, think of something. Find a way to leave._

"I have to go to school," Vladimir says. He pulls the sweater away from his face and jerks upright, reaching for his bag on the coffee table. Sadik eases him down onto the couch.

"Slow down, Vladi. You can miss school today," Sadik says. "I want you to stay here and lie down while I go get Aurel ready. Then I can help you."

Vladimir, despite his unconditional vow to never obey Sadik, obeys. He tells himself it's only because he's looking for a way out. Sadik hasn't won this time.

So he lies there and waits with his arms crossed over his chest, wishing he was better at throwing a punch, or at least dodging one.

"He caught you!" Aurel springs over the couch, landing on Vladimir's legs. Vladimir slips a leg out from underneath the boy and kicks him onto the floor, where he lands with a soft _thud._ He's on his feet in a second, chanting "Dad caught you!" over and over while pounding out each syllable on the couch.

"No. It's part of my plan," Vladimir says over Aurel's shouting.

Aurel stops and screws his face up in confusion. "I thought your plan was to not get caught."

"I'm…revising."

"Don't know what that means, and I don't care. You were too slow for Sadik." Aurel sticks his tongue out at Vladimir and heads off to the kitchen before Vladimir can kick him again.

"Vladimir is faster than me," Sadik says from somewhere in the back of the apartment. "I never would have caught him if he didn't pass out."

"You passed out? Lame." Aurel drags a chair across the kitchen, letting the feet screech against the linoleum.

"Pick it up!" Vladimir hisses.

Aurel pushes the chair back and forth in a horrible squeaky rhythm. Vladimir groans and covers his head with a throw pillow. He can feel his pulse in his temples and a sharp line of pain splits his head in half. If he were not already going to have his head bitten off, he would've screamed a slew of obscenities at the boy, but the best he can do right now is mutter _fuck-you's_ over and over into the couch.

"Are you crying?" Aurel says.

"If I say yes, will you stop?"

"Crybaby." Aurel knocks the chair up against the counter, climbs up onto the it, and then crawls onto the countertop to grab a box of cereal and a bowl from the cabinet. "Don't cry when Dad yells at you," he says in a sing-song voice as he wrings his hands beneath his eyes.

"Enough, Aurel," Sadik says as he comes into the room. He kneels beside Vladimir and sets out an array of first-aid supplies on the coffee table. "You'll have to go to school by yourself today. Walk with Erzsébet or Eliot. Don't you dare try to skip. I _will_ find out."

"Vladimir skips all the time," Aurel says through a mouthful of cereal.

"You are not Vladimir."

"Good. If I was Vladimir, I'd kill myself."

" _Aurică,"_ Sadik says. The name leaves his mouth in a gentle snap, as if he were reprimanding a puppy. "You do not speak to your brother like that. Apologize."

Aurel glances at the clock. "I'm going to miss the bus."

"You have time to apologize."

"Sorry you're so stupid and ugly, Vladimir," Aurel says in the smallest, almost inaudible whisper.

"That wasn't even an apology," Vladimir says to Sadik.

Sadik shrugs. "He's ten, Vladimir. It's the best you're going to get."

"If _I_ would've done that, you would've beat my ass."

"You are almost an adult. I would expect you to apologize better than a child." Sadik gives Vladimir's shoulder a dismissive pat as he gets up. "Alright, Aurel, let's get you out the door."

Aurel jumps down from the counter and sits down by the front door as he pulls on his shoes. "It's not fair that he gets to stay home," he says.

Sadik hands the boy his coat and his lunch. "When you get older and make poor choices, you can stay home, too. I promise you, today will not be a fun day for Vladimir. Be happy you get to go to school."

Vladimir closes his eyes when Aurel hugs Sadik and says goodbye. He can't block out the sickening, loving words they say in Turkish, words Sadik hasn't said to Vladimir. No one has hugged Vladimir goodbye in a long time. He digs his fingernails into his palms and thinks of his mother kissing his cheek before school and how he'd shove her away.

(How could he have known that years later he would give anything for someone to dote on him?)

"Aurel worries about you," Sadik says when he returns. He sits down on the edge of the couch, looking down at the worn rug. "I came home at two and he was sitting by the door, asleep. He'd stayed up all night waiting for you to come home."

Vladimir feels a twinge of guilt. "I told him to go to bed."

"You should be thankful he likes you. Aurel has every right to be mad at you right now, for abandoning him like that. And he still looks up to you."

"At least someone here doesn't hate me," Vladimir says.

Sadik doesn't attempt to correct his stepson. He's staring at Vladimir's black eye, his eyebrows furrowed together in something resembling concern. It might be confusion. "What happened last night?"

"You know what, I've got a really bad headache. I'm going to bed. You can come yell at me in, like, two hours." Vladimir pulls himself up and pushes past Sadik, heading down the hallway to his room.

"It would be much easier for you if you told me what you did," Sadik says without getting up. Does he even care why his stepson is covered in burns and bruises?

Vladimir turns on his heels. "What _I_ did?" he says. "Why do you always think I was the one doing something wrong?"

"Most people do not get punched because they were being nice, Vladimir."

"I am very nice!"

Sadik pinches the bridge of his nose. "Vladi, could you not –"

"I got attacked, okay? I was drunk and I got in a fight and I lost. It doesn't matter why, and the other guy is doing fucking fantastic. No one got hurt except for me. No one ever gets hurt but me. Is that enough for you?"

Vladimir doesn't wait for an answer. He storms into his bedroom and doesn't shut the door. There's no reason to. Sadik would kick down the door if he had to. Taking the Walkman out of his pocket, Vladimir lays down on his bed and puts the headphones over his ears. He slips the purple cassette into the Walkman and presses play.

A warm swell of a synth and Prince's voice greets him. " _Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to get through this thing called life."_

Sadik appears in the doorway, his arms folded over his chest. "Who am I going to get a call from?"

"No one," Vladimir says.

 _"It means forever and that's a mighty long time."_

"Listen to me, Vladimir. If you seriously hurt someone else and their parents find out it was you, you could –"

"I. Lost." Vladimir clutches a fistful of the blanket, what little he remembers from the party playing over and over in his head. He sees himself pinned against a wall, feels the first punch sink into his chest. Smoke burns in his lungs and blood fills his mouth.

 _"But I'm here to tell you there's something else. The afterworld."_

"I don't care who lost. Tell me what happened, now." Sadik is standing over Vladimir. His shadow covers the boy and creeps up the wall. "Someone could take this to the police –"

"It's fine! Why don't you listen to me?"

 _"Instead of asking him how much of your time is left, ask him how much of your mind, baby."_

"Why don't you listen to me? I ask you to watch Aurel, which is not difficult to do, and you run away and come home like this." Sadik gestures to Vladimir's black eye. "You _never_ would have treated Katya this way."

Vladimir's chest seizes up at the sound of the name. "Don't bring Mom into this."

" _In this life, you're on your own,"_ Prince says, seeming to mock Vladimir.

"What are you getting from disobeying me? Are you trying to prove something to me?"

"You don't care about me, so why do you think I'm going to care about you?" Vladimir says.

"I care."

"Really? Because I don't see you hitting Aurel. I don't see you screaming at him. It's only me." Vladimir's voice wavers, and he realizes he's in a cold sweat. "I don't mean _anything_ to you."

Sadik's eyes flicker. He raises his hand over his head and Vladimir flinches in anticipation.

 _"And if de-elevator tries to bring you down, go crazy! Punch a higher fl-"_

The Walkman is ripped out of Vladimir's hands. He gasps and lunges for it. Sadik holds it above his head, forces it open, and takes out the cassette. Vladimir's heart drops into his stomach – why couldn't Sadik hit him like usual? Why did he have to go for something that mattered?

"What are you doing?" Vladimir scrambles to his feet and Sadik curls his fingers around the cassette.

"You will tell me what happened last night," Sadik says.

"You don't scare me. I can buy another cassette," Vladimir says. He doesn't have the money to buy another real _Purple Rain_ album. He doesn't know if he'll ever find another real one.

"Tell me."

"I went to a party," Vladimir says. "I got drunk and this guy attacked me. I lost, went home with Erzsébet, and stayed with her boyfriend, Roderich. There, are you happy?" He reaches for the cassette. Sadik holds it up over his head again.

"No, Vladimir. Give me details."

"How? I can't remember anything."

"Where was the party and who did you fight?"

"I don't know the address. It was in Trapezului, I think. I don't even remember who I fought."

It was Gilbert Beilschmidt who pinned him up against the wall. It was his party. It was Vladimir's fault. Erzsébet invited him to go with her and Roderich, and by then Aurel was already half-asleep in front of the TV, so he didn't think Aurel would mind if he stepped out for a few hours. He shouldn't have gone inside when he saw whose house they were walking up to. He shouldn't have said he could take Gilbert in a fight. He shouldn't have run when he saw Gilbert coming downstairs.

Everyone watched Gilbert throw the first punch as he called Vladimir a dirty gypsy.

No one said anything about it until Vladimir kicked Gilbert and pulled his knife.

It isn't wrong until a gypsy does it.

A stranger's hand wrenched the knife away from Vladimir. Two boys who Vladimir didn't recognize dragged him out the back door and into the empty lot where the bonfire was. Gilbert followed. His face, already colorless, looked translucent in the streetlights. His red eyes were wide. He was scared _,_ and Vladimir felt a bit of pride that he scared the unshakable Gilbert Beilschmidt.

The boys threw Vladimir down in the dirt. Gilbert stood over him.

Vladimir remembers little else from the fight. Sometimes the pictures and sound break through – a particularly strong punch to the eye, Vladimir's teeth sinking into someone's arm, his nose crumpling under a fist, his sleeve catching fire. Everything comes back to him when Roderich appeared and yelled at Gilbert to go inside. He picked Vladimir up and walked him to his car. They drove home in silence. Vladimir fell asleep in Roderich's bathtub after spending an hour vomiting up cheap liquor and accepting apologies from Roderich on Gilbert's behalf.

"I think you do remember," Sadik says.

"I've told you all I remember. Sorry," Vladimir says.

"Don't lie to me."

"You think I'd lie to you?" Vladimir says. "What am I getting from lying to you?"

Sadik walks out of the room with the _Purple Rain_ cassette.

"Can I have that back?" Vladimir asks as he follows him into the kitchen.

"No." Sadik takes a frying pan from the hooks on the wall above the stove.

"Hey, Sadik? What are you doing?" Vladimir watches Sadik set the cassette down on the countertop.

Sadik raises the frying pan. "I am sick and tired of getting no respect from you."

Everything comes together too late.

Vladimir sticks his left hand out over the cassette. His fingers brush the smooth plastic and he tries to pull it away in time. Surely Sadik won't bring the pan down on Vladimir's hand. Sadik might hit him from time to time, but he'd never go this far. He'll stop himself any second now.

A loud, clean crunch of bones and plastic echoes throughout the kitchen. Pieces of cassette scatter across the countertop. Vladimir's hand is consumed by a white-hot pain that makes his arm seize up and his knees weak. His stomach turns as Sadik pulls the pan aside and he sees his fingers bent in ways fingers do not bend.

Sadik looks down at him, his mouth slightly ajar. The color is gone from his face. He glances at Vladimir's mangled hand, then at the silver ring on his left hand.

"Don't you ever lie to me again," he says.

* * *

 **a/n: I'm back on my bullshit**

 **Howdy!**

 **It's been a few years since we last saw each other. If you're a newcomer, great! It's very good to have you here. And if you're a returner, welcome back! A lot has changed since I last published here. I'm not as horrible at writing as I was in 2016. That doesn't mean I'm great. I just means I cleaned up my style a bit, and I'm still continuing to clean up my style. Writing is a constant process of evolution.**

 **I began this fic in 2016 because my favorite characters, Romania and Bulgaria, had next to no representation. In this house we love and respect the Balkan nations. I published it in 2018 and hardly touched it in 2019. Now it is 2020 and I'm still working on a story for two very underrepresented characters.**

 **So here's a strange idea born in the summer of 2016, named for a lyric in _Ghost Quartet,_ one of my favorite musicals. It's '80s themed because the 1980s and 1990s are my passion. It's kind of depressing. That's life.**

 **Thank you for reading this, or having stuck with me through one of the longest creative droughts I've experienced. However you feel about my fic, it would be very cool of you to drop a review. Everybody craves validation :)**

 **I hope you stick around until the end. That'd be sweet.**

 **Here's to _Let the Dead Be Dead!_**

polski-doodle


	2. Blood Money

_chapter two / blood money / dec. 15, 1989_

Vladimir rips off a piece of his paper, crumpling it between his thumb and forefinger. He holds it up, closing one eye as he adjusts his aim. The crumpled paper flies in a straight arc, bounces off Erzsébet's temple, and joins a dozen others trapped in her brown curls. She heaves a sigh and curses under her breath. She shoves the brush back into the bottle of hot pink nail polish and twists in her chair to face him.

"What? Do you need attention?" she asks as she waves her hand in the air to dry her nails.

"Nope. You've got something in your hair."

"Really? I didn't notice," Erzsébet says, picking a few of the papers out of her hair and throwing them in Vladimir's direction. "You're being extra irritating today. What's up?"

"I can't type." Vladimir holds up his broken hand. "I don't have anything to do."

Erzsébet rolls her eyes. "So you're going to bother me?"

"Hey, you're not typing, either."

"Because I'm done with the assignment."

"Try-hard." Vladimir makes another paper ball and throws it at her forehead. She catches it midair and throws it on the ground, grinding it beneath her heel.

"I'll break your other hand, too," she snaps. "Let me finish my nails and then I'll put up with your bullshit."

"God, you're being a bitch. Do you have a date tonight or something?" Vladimir puts his head down on his desk as Erzsébet returns to painting her nails, shooting Vladimir a glare to ward off any mischief.

"It's none of your business what I do in my free time."

"Bitch."

"You're just jealous because you know you could never get any girl in the world to go out with you," Erzsébet says, jabbing at him with the nailbrush.

A dot of pink is left on his wrist, and he wipes it away with his thumb, leaving a faint smear across his skin. "Doesn't change the fact that you're a bitch."

"Mr. Cosmescu, may I see you at my desk?"

The volume in the room lowers as soon as the name leaves the teacher's mouth. Vladimir sits up and fixates his attention on the blank page in front of him, typing out frantic strings of letters with his good hand, using the rounded splints on his other hand to peck at the keys on the left half of the typewriter. Several heads turn toward the two desks in the back corner of the room where every problem originates. Although Vladimir cannot look up, he can tell they are watching him, waiting for him to be called again. Erzsébet kicks Vladimir's leg under the desk, nodding toward the front.

"Shut up," Vladimir hisses through clenched teeth.

"Mr. Cosmescu, do not make me repeat myself."

The room goes silent.

Vladimir glances up. Every set of eyes is on him. He looks around in mock confusion, then points to himself.

"Is there another Cosmescu in the room?" their teacher asks.

"You're going to get your ass kicked." Erzsébet stifles a laugh in her palm.

"Miss Héderváry, do you have something you'd like to say?"

Erzsébet looks down at her lap as her face turns red. "No, miss. I'm sorry."

"Thank you. Will you tell your friend to come see me?"

Vladimir takes his time standing up and pushing his chair in while everyone watches, waiting for their weekly episode of _What's Vladimir Cosmescu in Trouble for Now?_. As he makes the slow, shameful walk to the front of the room, he pieces together how to explain he's calling Erzsébet a bitch in a respectful way. Then he runs through every wrong thing he's done in this room; will he be sent to the principal for cigarettes he and Erzsébet smoked in class when there was a substitute teacher yesterday? Or will he be berated for the dicks he drew on Erzsébet's workbook a week prior? Perhaps his teacher has figured out it was Vladimir who cracked one of the windows when Erzsébet shoved him into it.

It's probably the cigarettes.

He reaches the teacher's desk – everyone in the room leans in – and he puts on his best impression of innocence.

His teacher doesn't look up from the test she's grading. "Mr. Ionescu wants to see you in his office. Take your things, give me your work, and go."

The order hits Vladimir like a punch to the jaw – quick, disorienting, painful. He returns to his desk, gathering up his bag and ripping his paper out of the typewriter. Erzsébet shoots him a curious side-eyed glance.

"Principal," he says.

Erzsébet scrunches up her nose. "Yikes. I'd say you earned it, but even I'm not that mean."

Vladimir drops his paper off on the front desk as he leaves, turning it over so his teacher won't see the gibberish before he leaves the room. A heavy dread pools in his stomach as he begins the trek down to the first floor. He hasn't done anything worth suspension in months, and yet he can't shake the fear of having to call Sadik and tell him he's been suspended. Again.

Tonight, when Sadik comes home, he'll rant on and on about how Vladimir doesn't value anything he's given. He'll slap Vladimir's face and tell him to take school seriously or he'll end up living on the streets like every other gypsy. Tears will fill Vladimir's eyes and Sadik will hit him again and remind him he wouldn't be crying if he would behave.

Vladimir stops on the second floor, holding tight to the railing to anchor himself as a wave of anger rolls through him. He can't do this to himself. He's already suffered broken fingers because of Sadik. He won't have his pride broken, too. School ends in twenty minutes, and then there will be an entire weekend for the principal to forget why he wanted to suspend Vladimir.

He turns and heads for the room at the end of the hall before he can change his mind and decide to behave. As he draws closer to the door, the vacant cream-colored walls become hidden by art. This week, the walls surrounding him are covered in drawings of Bucharest. Among the skylines and plazas, Vladimir spots a soft green and yellow scene of Tineretului Park. A smile pulls at his lips when he sees the signature in the bottom corner, signed with a delicateness not found in most teen boys' handwriting.

The art teacher is so lost in his painting of a mountain field he doesn't notice Vladimir sneaking into the room to seek refuge. Vladimir grabs a paint-covered apron from a hook by the door and puts it on as he goes to the seat by the window where a tall, thin boy is hard at work, his eyebrows knitted together in concentration.

"Hey, El," Vladimir says as he pulls up a stool and sits down next to him.

Eliot acknowledges him with a wave of his free hand. "Hey. What're you doing?"

"I was supposed to go to the principal's office. I think I'm going to get suspended for smoking in typing yesterday. I'm going to wait until Monday to go so Sadik lets me go out this weekend. What are you painting?"

"My grandmother's summer home. We're supposed to paint a memory." Eliot takes a tiny brush from a jar on the table next to his easel, dipping it in pastel pink paint. Vladimir watches him bring the brush to the canvas, adding little highlights to the arched windows of a yellow cottage. "How are you typing without your left hand?"

"I'm trying to figure that out, too. Mostly I bother Erzsi. I saw your drawing of the park outside. It's really cool."

"You don't have to compliment me. It looks like shit." Eliot leans back from his painting, screwing up his face in disgust. "Jesus, this is so bad."

Vladimir can't see what Eliot hates in his art. When he looks at the canvas, he sees a summer home awash in the golden light of the setting sun. He feels the sun on his skin and hears the orchestra of cicadas. The flowers blooming in the foreground are almost tangible, their soft petals beginning to curl up in preparation for night. When he looks at Eliot's art, he does not see imperfections. He sees Eliot, reflected in the gentle brushstrokes and bright colors.

(And there is no flaw within Eliot Ciobanu-Ries.)

"It's better than I could do," Vladimir says.

"I have higher standards. No offense." Eliot adds patches of grass against the cottage with quick flicks of his wrist. "And I've got a lot more to live up to than you."

Vladimir, not knowing how else to tell Eliot he is the best artist in the class, goes quiet. He watches Eliot paint delicate white flowers on the ivy climbing up the house's wall, his face so close to the canvas his nose almost touches it. When he sits back to see the whole picture, he twists the black enamel ring on his right hand, asking for his father's approval. His father, a filmmaker and painter who fled Romania in the '60s to make meticulous art house films and take a lot of psychedelics, looms over Eliot even though he's been dead for six years. Eliot can't create anything without comparing it to his father's work or touching the black ring his mother gave him as a reminder of his father; and yet he resents his father's work, often buying copies of his films and smashing them in the park with Vladimir (who has no vendetta against Eliot's father but can't resist breaking something).

Vladimir doesn't get artists.

"What do you think I should do?" Eliot asks.

"Um, I think it looks fine," Vladimir says. Anything he would suggest would ruin the painting.

"But what would my –"

"Your dad can't do shit about it," Vladimir says. "He's dead, man."

Eliot taps his paintbrush against his bottom lip. "Yeah. Fuck, you're right. I'm really overthinking this."

"You do that a lot."

"It's just a stupid painting. Sorry for being so weird." Eliot sticks his brush in a jar of dirty water and wipes his fingers off on his apron. "Are we still going to Roderich's tomorrow?"

"I think so. Unless Erzsi's date goes bad. Again."

"How many times have they broken up now?"

"Five, I think. I mean, they're both bad for each other, but Roderich likes me and he's rich."

"So you're using him for his money?" Eliot says with a smile.

Vladimir shrugs. "What else would I be using him for?"

Eliot shakes his head and begins gathering up his array of brushes, shoving the jar of murky water into Vladimir's hand. Together they go to the sinks along the wall, where Vladimir holds the brushes while Eliot scrubs them clean under the water. He lets the colorful water from each brush fill his palm, staring into it for a moment before letting it run into the drain. Twice he opens his mouth as if he is going to speak, then stops himself. As he washes the orange out of a brush, he turns to Vladimir and looks him in the eyes.

"Hey, on Sunday, would you maybe want to –"

The final bell rings before Eliot can finish. The light in his eyes vanishes with a sigh and Vladimir wonders if it was a sigh of relief. His voice dies with the ringing of the bell, and he shoves the bundle of brushes into a cup to dry, shuts the water off, and walks away.

"Want to do what?" Vladimir asks as he follows him across the room.

"Never mind. I, um, remembered I had plans." Eliot shoves his sketchbook into his backpack and puts his painting on the shelf by the window to dry. "Can I come over? My aunt's watching the neighbor's kids."

"Sure. Is everything okay?"

Eliot flashes a grin that does nothing to reassure Vladimir. "I'm good. I've got a lot on my mind with exams and everything."

Vladimir isn't sure he believes his best friend. "Who cares about exams?"

"People who don't get fives and sixes in every class. Not that _you_ would know anything about that," Eliot says – he'd been the one to throw Vladimir's last report card in the trash so Vladimir had an excuse for when Sadik asked where it was. "We should get out of here before Ionescu hunts you down."

Together they walk to Aurel's school, where the boy is waiting on the front steps. Aurel runs straight to Eliot, bragging to him about how he won the spelling contest. Eliot makes the grave mistake of complimenting him, which launches Aurel into an in-depth recounting of every award he's ever won. He only stops when he sees Erzsébet waiting at the bus stop and runs up to her to beg for candy.

"Don't give him anything," Vladimir says when Erzsébet starts sifting through her bag.

She takes out two caramels wrapped in plastic and drops them in Aurel's outstretched palm. "Who do you like the best, Aurică?"

"Erzsi!" Aurel says through a mouthful of caramel.

" _I'm_ your half-brother," Vladimir says.

Aurel looks up at him. "Yeah, but Erzsi gives me candy."

"Face it, Vladi. Your own family likes me better than you," Erzsébet says with a coy flip of her hair.

The bus arrives thirty minutes late, as usual. Aurel shoves his way to the back and Vladimir, Eliot, and Erzsébet follow. At the very end of the bus, there is almost enough space for the four of them to stand and they quickly stake it as theirs. Aurel leans up against the window and draws shapes in the frost while Vladimir and Eliot try to step on each other's toes and Erzsébet pretends she's above their childish games (yet she takes a stab at Eliot's shoe that makes him yelp).

"Hey, gypsy!" an all too familiar voice shouts.

Vladimir feels a hand grab a chunk of his hair and his head is pulled backward. "Hey, you're looking pretty lively," Gilbert says as he lets go of Vladimir.

"What do you want?" Vladimir says, turning to face Gilbert. He looks as bad as Vladimir does, with a bruise highlighting his cheekbone and a split lip. With his already pale skin and white hair, he might even look worse.

"You don't know?" Gilbert pushes up the sleeve of his coat, exposing a perfect circle of a bruise. Rounded teeth marks dot the edge of the bruise. "You don't have rabies, right?"

No one speaks for what may be the most painful minutes of Vladimir's life. Vladimir, who spent his entire childhood hiding from vampire accusations, feels like he's in elementary school again. He'd grown up cursed with the name of a vampire – a family name carried down through generations of powerful Russian men and then dumped on Vladimir – and canine teeth that were a bit larger than they should've been. The vampire jokes had been put to rest in late primary school, when everyone found out his father was Roma.

There are a lot more ways to insult a gypsy than a vampire.

They hurt more, too.

"You bit him, Dracula," Erzsébet says at last. She is the only person to keep Vladimir's childhood nickname in use. Vladimir, despite his deep hatred for it, admires her diligence.

"What was I supposed to do?" Vladimir says. "He tried to kill me."

"What? You were the one who pulled a knife," Gilbert says as he pulls his sleeve down. "You always take things too far. All I was doing was finishing what you started. Maybe I had a little fun doing it, too." He glances down at Vladimir's bandaged hand. "I don't remember breaking your fingers."

"You didn't."

"Is your stepdad still kicking you around?" Gilbert says.

"Fuck off, Gilbert," Eliot snaps before Vladimir can begin to come up with an insult.

Gilbert shoves past Vladimir, grabbing Eliot by the collar of his shirt. Eliot, although he is a full head taller than Gilbert, shrinks into himself. Gilbert's mouth curls into a cold smile as vile words begin forming on his tongue. Vladimir reaches for his knife that is no longer there. Erzsébet puts her hand on Aurel's shoulder, hiding him from Gilbert's wrath with her bag.

"So now the queer thinks he can speak to me?" Gilbert says, pulling Eliot in close to him. "You think you're better than us because you're not from here? You're going to rush in and save your boyfriend before some big bad communist can beat him up?"

"Leave Vladimir out of this. I know a prick when I see one."

Gilbert's eyes flicker. "Yeah, of course _you_ would. I bet you like being this close to me, don't you? Really turns you on." He gathers more of Eliot's shirt in his fist, dragging him in closer.

"Bet you like this, too." Eliot leans in, his nose almost brushing Gilbert's. "I don't forget. I'm sure you don't, either."

Eliot rips Gilbert's hand off his shirt and pushes him into the back of a seat. Gilbert cards his fingers through his hair in a desperate attempt to look composed. He tries to come up with a snarky comeback but can't find anything better than a muttered _fag._ He vanishes back into the crowd with a venomous glare toward Vladimir.

When Eliot is sure Gilbert is gone, he rests his back against Erzsébet's shoulder and takes a shaky breath. A faint line of sweat glistens on his forehead – he wipes it away with his sleeve.

"You don't have to keep doing that," Vladimir says. Eliot isn't one to start fights, and he usually isn't one to finish them. Unless, of course, they're Vladimir's fights.

"And let him treat you like shit?" Eliot asks.

"Vladimir can hold his own," Erzsébet says.

"I don't care what Gilbert says to me," Vladimir says. He does, actually, and often thinks of Gilbert's cruel words when sees himself in the mirror. He isn't going to let Eliot know this, though. "The shit that Gilbert says to me doesn't mean anything. Don't let him hurt you because you're trying to help me."

"Vladimir, I mean this in the nicest way, but you get the shit beat out of you enough without Gilbert. So what if he calls me gay? They're only words. It doesn't hurt as much as seeing you get fucked up," Eliot says.

"Thanks," Vladimir says.

He can't tell Eliot how much it hurts him when Gilbert says awful things about Eliot, so instead he punches Eliot's arm. He hopes it suffices.

* * *

 _dec. 16, 1989_

Vladimir clutches a pencil in his right hand, tracing the shape of his name in the air. After a few more test runs, he presses the lead to the page and makes a clumsy V. It's not bad. A shred of hope flutters in his chest. As he finishes his name, the hope turns into despair. The rest of the letters are crumpled, overlapping, and trailing downward as if they were falling off a cliff. His handwriting is far from perfect, but he didn't think it could be worse.

"It's getting there," Eliot says. "You need more space between the letters."

"Getting there?" Erzsébet snatches the notebook away from Vladimir. "That looks the same as when you started," she says.

"I'm _trying."_ Vladimir flips the pencil over and erases the pathetic attempt at his name. The eraser tears a hole through the paper. He stares at the gash, holding the pencil in his fist like a kindergartener. A familiar bleakness spills into his thoughts. Vladimir slams his notebook shut and stuffs it in his bookbag before putting his head down on the coffee table and accepting that he's about to fail every exam next week because he can't write his name, let alone an essay on a Romanian king.

"I'm quitting school," Vladimir says.

"Go for it," Erzebet says at the same time Eliot says, "No!"

"What's the point in staying?" Vladimir asks. "I mean, I'm just going to fail anyway. At least you two have a chance."

Eliot and Erzsébet look at each other over Vladimir's head. They are both perfect students with perfect grades. Erzsébet hasn't failed a class. Universities ask Eliot to study there. Vladimir gets letters sent home to Sadik every semester and lives with the fear of being sent to the school for "delinquents", which is a gentle way of saying it's full of gypsies. Although Eliot tries his best and Erzsébet sometimes makes an effort, they don't understand the pain of being a constant disappointment.

"Cheer up, Vladimir. It'll get better," Eliot says.

"Or worse," Erzsébet says. Eliot reaches over and slaps her arm.

"Maybe I can write your tests for you," Eliot says. "Or you can type."

"He can't type, either," Erzsébet says. "Face it, El. Vladimir's a lost cause."

"I'm not a lost cause," Vladimir says.

"Well, maybe if…" Eliot starts.

"Eliot Leo Ciobanu-Ries, I'll kill you if you don't cut this out," Erzsébet says. "I'll tell you the truth, Vladimir. You're going to fail. Bad. Sadik is going to beat your ass and then we'll all laugh about it next semester."

"Could you be helpful for once?" Eliot says, folding his arms over his chest and sinking deeper into his blue coat. "You don't always have to cut him down."

"If I was cutting him down, you'd know. I'm being honest."

"Why is your honesty so aggressive?"

"That's my personality!"

"Why are you yelling?" Roderich's voice cuts through Erzsébet and Eliot's argument as he comes into the living room. He sets an armful of candles down on the coffee table, standing them upright on different plates and platters.

"Ask Vladimir. It's his problem," Erzsébet says.

"What's wrong now?" Roderich lights a candle with a cigarette lighter, then lights the rest with the candle. The glow of the small flames is enough to breathe life back into the cold, dark room.

Vladimir glances up at Roderich. Roderich looks at him with an indeterminable expression, somewhere between irritation and concern.

"I'm going to fail my exams," Vladimir says.

"Then study."

"I am. I can't write, though, so what's the point?" Vladimir holds up his broken, bandaged hand. Roderich's eyes flicker. He reaches out and takes Vladimir's hand in his, twisting it to find the best angle to see the bruised and battered fingers beneath the bandages.

"You're left-handed."

Vladimir can't tell if that was a question or a statement. "Yeah, I am."

Roderich drops Vladimir's hand. "So is Gilbert. Did he do this?" he asks.

"Sadik broke them with a frying pan."

"Fuck," Roderich says, as if this explains everything. He sits down on the couch beside Erzsébet, putting his arm over her shoulder. She nestles into him and a smile flickers across his face for a moment, a fleeting shadow on the emotionless teen. "You aren't going to get much studying done with the power out, anyway."

The power goes out every night around ten, as if the government believes all of Bucharest is asleep and will not notice. On warmer days, they shut it off earlier. Somedays, it shuts off around noon. They've grown used to living in the dark; however, it does make a good excuse to not study. Vladimir can't thank Ceausescu for much, but the dictator's rationing has saved him from schoolwork often.

The doorbell rings and Roderich mumbles something about staying put while he gets the door. Before he can leave the living room, the door is thrown open and someone comes running down the hallway and strangles Roderich in a hug. Vladimir's heart sinks into his stomach. Only two people in this world would dare to hug Roderich, and one of them is sitting on the couch.

"I haven't seen you in two days," Gilbert says.

"Thank God," Roderich says as he pushes Gilbert off him.

"Hey, Roderich." Ludwig appears in the doorway, looking as uncomfortable and embarrassed as ever.

"Hello, Ludwig. It's nice to see you."

"What about me? You don't like seeing your dearest cousin?" Gilbert twists Roderich's arm up in the air at a concerning angle. Roderich doesn't seem to mind.

"Don't touch me," Roderich says, wrenching his arm free.

"What did I do to you?" Gilbert asks, tilting his head to the side in mock innocence that makes Vladimir want to choke him. "Is it because of Sunday?" he asks. "Don't tell me you _like_ that gypsy."

"You're so smart." Roderich pushes Gilbert away and returns to his place on the couch next to Erzsébet. "Go home, Gilbert."

"Can't. I locked us out of the house and Dad won't be home for a while." Gilbert enters the living room and sits down on the floor next to Eliot. Eliot doesn't acknowledge him. Ludwig sits next to Vladimir, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.

"So," Gilbert says, sick of waiting for someone to provoke him. "What exactly are we doing here?"

"We were studying for exams, until you interrupted," Roderich says. "Not you, Ludwig. You're fine."

"Thanks?" Ludwig says, his face turning bright red.

"I didn't know your dad let these three in," Gilbert says with a nauseating grin. "I thought this was a good Christian household, but this looks like a gypsy, a queer, and a whore."

"Suck my dick, Gilbert," Erzsébet says as she rests her head on Roderich's chest.

"Don't you think about telling him," Roderich says.

Vladimir, Eliot, and especially Erzsébet have never been welcome in Roderich's house. Roderich's father, being some sort of government official, keeps his house clean of the scourges of Bucharest. He would kick Roderich out if he knew his son was dragging in a gypsy, a boy from the West with hippie parents and a loathing of communism, and a girl from a poor farming family relocated during collectivization. Whenever Vladimir stays in Roderich's home, he sleeps in Roderich's bathtub, out of sight of his parents. He's heard horror stories from Erzsébet about the few times she's been let in when Roderich's parents are there, often ending in her crying in Roderich's car. Thankfully, Roderich's parents are so busy with work they don't have time to keep tabs on their only son.

Gilbert shrugs. "Maybe I will. Vladimir hasn't been so…hospitable to me."

"You could've killed him on Sunday," Erzsébet says.

"So? It's not like anyone would care."

" _Gilbert_ ," both Roderich and Ludwig snap.

"What? It's the truth, isn't it? You've got no one, everyone hates you, you're pals with Eliot." He looks to Vladimir as if he'll back him up.

"Do you have any personality traits other than being an asshole?" Vladimir asks.

"Don't think so."

The conversation dies with this. They spend the next hour in silence, broken only by Vladimir's frustrated curses at his right hand and a few insults from Gilbert. Vladimir gives up on writing his name for good and slumps over the coffee table. Eliot tries to encourage him into trying again. It's hopeless. Vladimir closes his eyes and prays Gilbert will grow bored of being rude and leave.

He hears Roderich whisper something to Erzsébet that makes her laugh. Ludwig asks Eliot how to conjugate the imperfect in German. Rain starts to peck at the giant windows and a wind tears one of them open, causing everyone in the room to jump up and close it before the _curent_ could get in. He hears the clock at the far corner of the room chime six times.

" _Vladimir."_

Vladimir is jerked awake by Roderich shaking him with a furiously gentle hand. He opens his eyes to find the living room empty and Roderich pulling him to his feet.

"We need to go. My dad came home early. Anyone who isn't related to me needs to get out, now." Roderich shoves Vladimir bookbag into his arms, guiding him out into the hallway. They stop in the kitchen, where Erzsébet, Ludwig, Eliot, and Gilbert are sitting at the table, an impressive array of homework splayed out in front of them. Roderich takes his keys from a row of hooks and tosses Vladimir his jacket.

A ten lei bill flutters down to the floor.

"I forgot to buy bread," Vladimir says, picking up the lei. The memory of Sadik giving him the money and instructions hits him like a brick wall across a highway.

"Everything's gone or closed by now," Gilbert says. He doesn't need to. Everyone already knows there's no hope for Vladimir.

The ever-growing pit of dread in Vladimir's stomach creeps up into his throat. Sadik is already furious with him. Going home without the bread would be inviting a fight. "I can't go home," he says.

"Sorry. You need to go, now," Roderich says. "I'll go start the car. Take whatever you need to from here. My mom won't notice."

He leaves with Eliot in tow. Erzsébet lingers, using herself as a barrier between Gilbert and Vladimir.

"I know it's not bread, but I have these." Gilbert says after he hears the front door slammed closed. "Ludwig, get the bag out of the front pocket."

Ludwig looks a few shades paler than usual as he picks up Gilbert's backpack and unzips the front pocket. He pulls out a paper bag and gives it to Gilbert. "Here," Gilbert says, handing them to Vladimir.

"I don't have time for a fucking joke," Vladimir says.

"It isn't a joke. Open it."

Vladimir hands the bag to Erzsébet. She frowns at him but opens the bag. She gasps and almost drops the bag trying to pull out its contents.

In her hand is a small orange.

Vladimir hasn't seen an orange since he was ten. They're elusive fruits, rivaled only by the king of unattainable luxury: pineapples. Erzsébet gives the orange to Vladimir and he cradles it like a baby bird. The smooth yet rough skin is so foreign to his touch. The smell of citrus stings his nose. He rolls the orange over and over in his hand, trying to remember what it tastes like.

"There's five?" Erzsébet says. "Gilbert, where did you get these?"

"Securitate and some important foreigner came here last week for a dinner party. They imported a lot of fruit from Turkey for it. I took every orange I could find. I've made at least two hundred lei off of them," Gilbert says.

"And you're giving these to me?" Vladimir says.

"No. Give me the ten lei and stop following Roderich around. It's fucking annoying that you're always here."

Erzsébet takes the oranges and shoves them in the bag before sliding them across the table to Gilbert. "Stop being a prick, Gilbert."

"Let him decide for himself." Gilbert tosses the bag to Vladimir. Outside, a car pulls into the driveway; is it Roderich or his father? "Hurry up. What'll it be, gypsy?"

"Gilbert," Ludwig says. "Just give it to him."

"It's okay," Vladimir says. He crumples the lei and presses it into Gilbert's open hand. "Thank you." There is no gratitude in his words.

"It's no problem." Gilbert shoves the lei in his backpack. "If I catch you with Roderich, I'll snap you in half."

Vladimir starts to head out the front door toward Roderich. Gilbert stops him.

"Our deal starts now, Vladi."

Vladimir clenches the bag of oranges. His home is a three-kilometer walk from here. "Right," he says, turning toward the back door. "When he asks, tell him I had to go get Aurel, okay?"

"I will. Have a nice walk."

"Fuck off."

Vladimir climbs the fence surrounding Roderich's small, well-manicured yard with the bag of oranges held between his thumb and broken fingers. He slips off the fence onto the frozen ground and tries to catch himself with his broken hand. A bright pain shoots up his arm and tears well up in his eyes. He falls against the fence, letting a single tear roll down his face.

He stays there for a while, clutching the oranges and shivering.

(He doesn't want to think about how much he wants to be sitting in the backseat of Roderich's car next to Eliot.)


	3. December 21, 1989

**this chapter contains a description of a mass shooting.**

* * *

 _chapter three / december 21, 1989 / dec. 17, 1989_

 _"Don't step out of this house if that's the clothes you're gonna wear. I'll kick you out of my home if you don't cut that hair –"_

"Vladimir, turn it down. You'll go deaf."

Vladimir shoots Sadik a glare but turns down his Walkman anyway. "Why are you so concerned about me being able to hear?"

"I still care about you."

"Oh?" Vladimir takes his broken hand out of his jacket and lets it rest on the seat. Sadik doesn't look. His shoulders tense up and he clutches the steering wheel until his knuckles go white.

"I told you I'm sorry. It was an accident, honest," Sadik says. "I don't mean to hurt you, ever."

"That's what you say every time."

"I mean it every time."

Vladimir leans against the window, watching the street crawl by. A few people wander the sidewalks, buried in coats and hidden in hats and scarves. He can't make out any of their faces. The music in his headphones fades away as the next track starts up. The Beastie Boys have always been able to cheer Vladimir up. It isn't working tonight.

"I don't hate you," Sadik says. "Sometimes I get mad at you –"

"You're always mad at me," Vladimir says.

"Things aren't going well for me right now, Vladimir. I'm sorry that I'm taking it out on you because you keep making stupid decisions."

"What, am I not allowed to have fun anymore?"

"You can have fun without worrying me."

Vladimir tangles the headphones cord around his fingers until he cuts off circulation and his fingertips turn blue. "Don't act like you've ever worried about me."

"I do. I promised Katya that I wouldn't let anything happen to you," Sadik says. He looks well beyond his normal exhaustion. The dark lines under his eyes are deeper and his shoulders are bent under an invisible weight. "And you're not making it easy."

"Stop trying to guilt me into whatever you want by bringing up my mom," Vladimir says, hoping he sounds indifferent. His voice cracks and gives him away. Sadik tries to put his hand on Vladimir's arm and Vladimir presses closer to the window, tucking his hands under his arms.

"I'm not trying to guilt you into anything," he says.

"Yes, you are. Every time I do mess up, you try to shame me into apologizing with my mom," Vladimir says. "Like, if I was a good kid, she wouldn't have died. Why don't you do this to Aurel? She's his mom, too."

"Aurel isn't getting into fights and disappearing."

"It's because he's your favorite," Vladimir snaps.

"I don't know why you're so hung up on favorites," Sadik says. "I love both of you the same. You both are my children, and I am going to do whatever it takes to keep you safe. It's not my fault you choose to act out more than Aurel."

Vladimir doesn't say anything in response and turns to picking at the bandages wrapped around his hand. Sadik lets them slip back into an uncomfortable silence. Vladimir glances at the folded sheet of construction paper wedged between the seat and the console. A German shepherd with a bouquet in its mouth looks back at him with lopsided brown eyes.

Beneath the dog, the words " _Sorry you got shot!"_ are written in clumsy, ten-year-old handwriting.

"Did you see this card Aurel made?" Vladimir asks.

"No."

"It says 'sorry you got shot'."

Sadik sighs, running a hand through his dark hair. "Oh, Aurel. You have such a way with words."

The car turns onto a narrow, dim street. Sadik parks behind a pale blue Dacia and turns the car off. Vladimir starts to get out and Sadik grabs him by the wrist.

"I'm sorry," he says.

Vladimir can't tell if he means it. "It's fine."

"Let's try and have a pleasant evening."

"Sure." Vladimir pushes open the door and tries to leave. Sadik pulls him into the car.

"And about your hand," he says. "Don't tell them. Please. They won't understand."

Vladimir restrains himself from telling Sadik he wants to tell his aunt and uncle everything, instead settling on a half-smile and a submissive _okay_. Better to keep the peace than get in another fight at a family dinner. Sadik ruffles Vladimir's hair and says two words in Turkish, a phrase he's heard said to Aurel many times.

 _Aferin oğluma_.

 _There's a good boy._

The two words ring in Vladimir's head as they get out of the car and walk into the apartment complex. There is so much love and pride in Sadik's voice when he says the words to Aurel. There was nothing like that when he said them to Vladimir. He says _aferin oğluma_ whenever Aurel does good on a test or helps wash the dishes. The way he said it to Vladimir didn't feel congratulatory – it felt like Sadik was speaking to a dog.

Vladimir walks behind Sadik until they are at the doorstep of Natalya's apartment. A hazy Russian song leaks out from underneath the door and the comforting smell of cooked onions and garlic fills the hallway. Natalya says something to Ivan and after a moment of stifled bickering, the door is opened. To their surprise, Ivan is standing there, ghostly pale. A pink scarf hangs from his neck like a noose. He's wearing a half-unbuttoned white shirt, showing off glimpses of the bandages on his chest. Vladimir counts the bandages: there's three that he can see, with perhaps a corner of a fourth near his waist.

"Hello, Adnan and Cosmescu," Ivan says with a little glance toward Vladimir. "I didn't know you were coming."

"Let them in," Natalya says. "I'm not paying to heat the whole damn floor."

Ivan steps out of the doorway. "Be careful, Natasha's in a mood."

"I'm not deaf, _Vanya_." Natalya pulls a pot off the stove and comes over to greet them, while Ivan recedes into the apartment. Vladimir watches him go, looking away when uncle stops in the hall and clutches at his stomach.

Vladimir, who hates any adult paying attention to him, lets Natalya dote on him. Or at least he thinks it's doting when she gives him a brief hug and mentions how he resembles his mother, he's getting taller, and his hair is too long. She only says hello in a soft, razor-edged tone to Sadik before returning her attention to Vladimir.

"Aurel didn't come," she says.

"He's staying with a friend tonight," Vladimir says, pulling Aurel's card out of his pocket. "He made Ivan a card."

Natalya takes it from him and while her eyebrows furrow in confusion at the card's message, she tucks it away in her apron. "Thank you. He's such a sweet boy. Go find Vanya and tell him he has to eat with us," she says. Natalya doesn't ask questions. She makes demands, and Vladimir doesn't want to know what happens if he didn't comply. "Don't let him go to his room or we won't get him out."

She nudges Vladimir toward the living room and starts talking to Sadik in quick Russian. Vladimir lingers in the hallway, catching pieces of sentences and words.

 _Securitate came yesterday._

 _He quit?_

 _Well-intentioned._

 _He's naïve._

 _Five times, Sadik._

 _Lucky._

Natalya looks away from their conversation and sees Vladimir standing there. She frowns and shoos him away with a wooden spoon, telling him he'll go deaf if he keeps listening to things he shouldn't.

He finds Ivan in the living room, half-watching the news while he traces circles on the armrest with his finger. When he sees Vladimir he puts on a smile and motions for the boy to join him. Vladimir has always thought his uncle to be invincible. Now, his uncle looks small and broken, held together only by a scarf and bandages.

"Hey. Natalya says you have to eat with us," Vladimir says.

"Aren't you going to ask me how I am?" Ivan says. His voice no longer has its usual light, rough edge. It's been smoothed by something artificial. "Sit down. Talk to your favorite uncle."

"You're my only uncle," Vladimir says as he sits down next to him.

"That doesn't matter. How are you?" Ivan asks.

Vladimir can't think of a way to summarize the miserable past week in a sentence. "Could be better."

Ivan almost laughs. "You look like you've been through hell."

"So do you."

"I always do. Did you get in a fight?"

Vladimir nods, his face burning with shame. "It was bad. I lost."

"It's okay. I almost lost mine, too. Sorry," Ivan says, as if everything is somehow his fault.

"Sorry about what?" Vladimir asks. He wonders if Ivan has started drinking again – it would explain Natalya's mood.

"You know," he says. Vladimir doesn't know, but he nods anyway.

"How are you?" Vladimir says.

Ivan hesitates. "Well, I've been worse." He turns his attention to the news. As usual, there is no sound. Natalya's black-and-white TV has been broken for the past ten years, however, she never turns it on, so there is no reason to fix it. The reporter opens his mouth and no noise comes out. They show a video from Timisoara of people shouting, a car on fire, and tanks rolling down a street in silence. Then they show Ceausescu and the Iranian president talking. Both look uncomfortable.

"Do you know how many people died in Timisoara?" Ivan says.

Vladimir shakes his head.

"Over a hundred so far. And our dear Nicolae is making small-talk in Iran." Ivan grabs the remote from the coffee table and turns the TV off and pulls himself up. He flinches and holds a hand over his ribs as if he is pushing something back into him.

"Are you okay?" Vladimir says.

"No. Let's go eat."

Sadik and Natalya are already sitting at the small dining table tucked into the corner of the kitchen. Vladimir takes his place at the table before a bowl of ciorba de perisoare and a plate with mamaligafrosted with sour cream and pickles. Natalya makes them pray before they can eat and although Vladimir shouldn't have his eyes open, he opens them just enough to see Sadik next to him, unsure of what to do with himself.

It's fun to see Sadik squirm.

"How are you doing, Ivan?" Sadik asks once Natalya finishes her prayer.

Ivan shrugs. "I got shot five times. You're the doctor, you tell me how I am."

Natalya kicks Ivan's shin under the table.

"Natalya tells me you've quit Securitate," Sadik says. "That should be a weight off your mind."

"You quit?" Vladimir says. Ivan joined Securitate in Timisoara shortly after Vladimir was born. He never spoke about it to Vladimir. What little Vladimir knew about it was it allowed Ivan to travel outside the country and caused a mental breakdown in 1977 where he almost died of alcohol poisoning.

"I've been wanting to for a few years now. I've had a…change of mind. Getting shot by a couple of protesters was the nail in the coffin."

"They must be missing you," Sadik says.

"Maybe they are. Things were already going downhill. We – I mean, they – don't see this lasting much longer." Ivan gestures out the window toward Palace Square. "Ceausescu's lost his hold on –"

"That's enough," Natalya says, putting her hand on Ivan's arm. "I didn't invite them here to bore them to death with politics. Vladimir, dear, Sadik says that you got in a fight. You aren't getting into trouble in school, are you?"

Vladimir looks down at the table. "Not really."

"You don't always show up with black eyes and broken fingers."

"He slammed his hand in the door," Sadik says before Vladimir can explain. Ivan doesn't make any sign he heard Sadik. Natalya doesn't say anything for a moment, then scolds Vladimir in Russian for being so careless. Vladimir tries to use a series of slight gestures to tell her that it was Sadik's fault. She doesn't catch on.

Vladimir spends the next twenty minutes in silence, unless he's asked a question about school or a girlfriend. Most of the conversation is in Russian, which Vladimir doesn't understand much of. What he does hear is boring, meaningless things: stories they've told thousands of times, complaints about prices, wishing the holidays would end sooner because no one likes to be reminded that they're spending them without Katya.

He takes to looking around to pass the time. Natalya's apartment hasn't changed since Vladimir can remember and likely never will. She's kept the same cream wallpaper and red wall-to-wall rugs. The icon shelf still looms in the corner, full of golden images of saints watching over the living room and a potted plant spilling over with waxy leaves. The lace curtains Vladimir used to hide in as a kid cover the windows, limp and lifeless. The kitchen and living room are cluttered and claustrophobic in a comforting, familiar way.

The only thing that's different is the wall where the photos used to be. Where there once was an abundance of family portraits, three photos remain in simple black frames. The first is of three children standing on the front porch of a derelict house, the middle is a family picture taken a few months before his mother died, and the last is a picture of Natalya and Katya at Katya's first wedding.

"I could watch them for you," Ivan says. "I've got nothing better to do."

"Vanya, dear," Natalya says with ice in her words, "I don't think it would be best for you to watch them right now."

"Why?"

"Watch who?" Vladimir asks. No one hears him.

" _It isn't polite to discuss this in front of the boy,"_ Natalya says in Russian, glancing toward Vladimir.

" _What are you saying about me?"_ Ivan snaps.

"Who are you going to watch?" Vladimir asks again.

" _Vanya. You can barely take care of yourself –"_

" _Nothing is wrong with me! You are keeping me trapped here so you don't lose me, too!"_

" _I am keeping you here because you do nothing but drink! I am trying to help you, and it think it's best if you aren't responsible for someone's children right now."_

Vladimir nudges Sadik's foot under the table. "Who are they fighting about?"

"You and Aurel," Sadik says. "I have to work on Thursday, and I know what you're planning on doing."

" _I_ don't know what I'm doing on Thursday." Vladimir barely knows what he's supposed to be doing tomorrow, let alone four days in advance.

"Don't lie."

"I'm not lying. I don't know what you're talking about. I'm going to school, right?"

Sadik pinches the bridge of his nose, looking like he would rather be anywhere else in the world than between a family fight and his stepson. "Vladimir. Use the brain Allah gave you. It's Ceausescu's speech."

"Oh!" Vladimir says – Ceausescu and his antics go largely ignored by Vladimir, unless they're being forced down his throat. "It's not mandatory this year, with Timisoara and everything. I was going to stay home and maybe hang out with El and Erzsi."

"I would love to believe you. But after last year…" Sadik trails off, saving himself from reliving the embarrassment of the year before.

Vladimir and his friends had snuck away from their school group and were sitting on a curb near the edge of the crowd, talking shit on a girl Erzsébet was fighting with. A police officer walked by them, and Vladimir, thinking nothing would come of it, stuck his leg out. The officer tripped and fell, and Vladimir took off running. He didn't make it far before he was slammed to the ground. He stuck his hands out to catch himself but hit the ground all wrong. His right wrist snapped back farther than it should have.

Sadik came to collect Vladimir at the police station hours later and found his stepson holding a three hundred lei fine for harassment and an ice pack around his swollen wrist.

"That was an accident. It's not like I'm going to punch a cop this year," Vladimir says.

"No. I imagine you'll do worse. I need you to stay out of trouble right now, Vladimir," Sadik says. "And if that means having you stay with Natalya, then you will stay with Natalya."

"I'm not five fucking years old."

The muscles in Sadik's arm tense and he shoves his hand in his lap to keep himself from striking his stepson in front of his in-laws. "Don't speak like that in front of your family."

"They're not listening," Vladimir says, gesturing to Ivan and Natalya. Natalya has her hand gripped tight around Ivan's arm and Ivan looks as though he is going to reach for his fork and stab her.

"You can send Aurel over here," Vladimir says. "But it's ridiculous for you to make me stay here."

"You will stay with your aunt or –"

"Or what?" Ivan says. His dark eyes narrow when Sadik gives him an apologetic smile.

"I'm sorry for causing such a problem," Sadik says with his head bowed. "You don't need to be burdened by my children."

 _I'm not your child,_ is what Vladimir wants to say. Instead, he says, "So I can stay home on Thursday?"

Sadik sighs. "No."

"Do you not trust me?" Vladimir says.

"I do. I don't want you at this speech and I don't trust you to do what I tell you."

"You just said that you trusted me and then you said that you don't?"

"Not this time. I don't want you to get yourself or Aurel hurt."

"How could I get hurt at a speech that I am not going to?"

Ivan interrupts before Sadik can begin to belittle Vladimir again. "There's will be a lot of protesters because of Timisoara," he says. "Things could turn violent easily. It's better to stay out of it this year."

"I'm not _going_ to the speech."

"I know. But you're liable to get caught up in it," Ivan says.

Vladimir studies his uncle's face, searching for any sign of loyalty. He doesn't find it. "You don't trust me, either."

"Of course we do," Natalya says.

"We want what's best for you," Ivan says.

"Which is for you to stay here on Thursday," Sadik adds.

Vladimir gets up, takes his plate to the sink, and grabs his coat from the hook by the door. No one stops him. He shoves his feet into his shoes and puts his hand on the door. No one asks him to return to the table or apologizes.

"I'm not a kid anymore," Vladimir says.

"No one is saying you are," Natalya says.

"Thanks for dinner,mătuşă _._ I'm walking home."

"Don't get lost," Sadik says.

"I'm going to go jump off an overpass and die and it'll be your fault."

Sadik glances over his shoulder. "Do you want to keep throwing a fit or will sit down and talk this over like an adult?"

The eternal knot of anger in Vladimir's heart ties itself tighter. How can Sadik be so cruel as to set Vladimir up in front of the two adults who don't look down on Vladimir? How could he make Vladimir embarrass himself like this? Why can't he be a normal stepdad instead of trying to outsmart Vladimir and make him feel like he's five?

He wants to clench his fists, but his left hand can't bend, so the best he can to is crumple his right hand at his side.

A risky, cruel idea forms in his mind. He won't be able to win this battle with Sadik. Come Thursday, he'll be forced to stay with Natalya. What he can have is a victorious moment, a brief glimpse of glory in his never-ending war against Sadik. He unfolds his arms and holds up his left hand – his trump card. Sadik keeps his stoic face. His eyes are full of panic.

"Sadik broke my fingers with a frying pan, on purpose," Vladimir says, enunciating each word so they cannot be mistaken.

" _Vladimir!"_

"What did you do to him?" Ivan gets up so fast his chair falls over, slamming against the floor. Natalya makes a vain attempt at stopping him. Vladimir runs out the door before he can see the fallout. He takes the steps in leaps, waiting for a hand to grab him and throw him down to the floor. His heart jumps into his throat and yet he's smiling. He feels free for the first time in years.

He doesn't stop running until he's out on the street. He figures the Braginskys will keep Sadik busy for another hour, so he takes his time walking home. He pulls his Walkman out of his pocket and slips the headphones over his ears and lets the Beastie Boys walk him home. Although it's probably a little wrong, he can't help dancing along to "No Sleep 'Til Brooklyn" as he thinks of Sadik getting what's been coming to him.

Sadik comes home late that night with a bruise on his cheek the size of Ivan's fist. Vladimir wishes he could say something smug. Instead, he feels sick and can't open his mouth.

His stepfather brushes past him. "You and your brother will stay at Natalya's on Thursday."

"Fuck that."

Sadik lunges faster than Vladimir can dodge, grabbing the boy's face in one hand. His fingers dig into Vladimir's skin and hold his jaw shut, forcing him into silence. Vladimir doesn't try to pull free. This was always coming – it's better to take it now than face a worse fate later.

"You will not talk like that in _my_ home." Sadik pulls Vladimir's chin up, making him look him in the eye. "Do you understand me?"

 _This isn't your home. I've lived here longer than you._

Vladimir nods. Sadik throws him aside and Vladimir retreats to his room, curling up beneath his blankets as feeling begins to return to his mouth.

* * *

 _dec. 21, 1989_

Vladimir sits on the floor in Natalya's living room, watching Aurel draw yet another robot. The ticking of the ornate clock on the wall echoes in his mind, drowning out his thoughts. He can't tell how long he's been trapped in this room. Hours? Days? Weeks? Time has ground to a halt. He's beginning to understand how Ivan feels.

He hasn't seen Ivan in hours. His uncle vanished into the depths of the apartment when Natalya told him she was stepping out to do some Christmas shopping and he needed to make lunch for the boys. Vladimir has heard tinny '70s folk music and a few muffled _thumps_ from the back, but for the most part Ivan has been silent. He's considered going to the guest bedroom and asking to drink with his uncle. Anything would be better than sitting here and listening to Aurel discuss which Transformer is cooler.

Aurel shoves a drawing of two robots into Vladimir's arm. "So if we were Transformers – "

"Aurel. I don't care."

"—I would be Optimus Prime because he's the best and you would be Starscream because you're mean and I'm really good at drawing Starscream."

Vladimir glances at the drawing. A blue and red robot is kicking another blue and red robot. He can't figure out who is supposed to be who. He's seen the bootlegged VHS tape they have of six Transformers episodes no less than a thousand times, and yet every Transformer looks exactly alike to him. "Cool. Those words mean nothing to me."

Aurel furrows his brow as he pulls the drawing back and admires his work. "Don't make me demote you to Warpath."

"Go ahead."

"Warpath sucks."

"Great."

"That means you suck."

Vladimir puts his head down on the coffee table and wonders how hard he'd have to slam his head into it to kill himself.

A door is thrown open somewhere in the apartment and heavy footsteps come down the hall. Vladimir tilts his head up just enough to see Ivan come into the living room and look down at the mess of notebook paper on the coffee table. Aurel holds up a drawing for approval and Ivan smiles, but it doesn't seem like he's smiling at Aurel's artwork.

"Let's go for a drive," he says.

Aurel shakes his head. "Aunt Natasha says you're not supposed to drive."

"Aunt Natasha doesn't know what she's talking about. I need to get out of here. We can go get lunch. Vladik, go grab the oranges you brought over."

Vladimir doesn't need a reason to leave; he is already on his feet. He doesn't care that Ivan has been drinking for a while now and shouldn't be driving. Roderich has driven drunk a few times before, and he's never wrecked his car, so Ivan should be fine. Ivan scrawls an incomprehensible note on the notepad by the door and tosses Aurel's coat over the boy's shoulders. A grin pulls at Vladimir's mouth as they take the elevator down to the lobby and walk out to Ivan's blue Dacia.

Ivan takes them to the ring around the city center yet doesn't stop when they reach block upon block of restaurants and grocery stores. He keeps getting closer and closer to the plaza where Ceausescu is due to give his speech in half an hour. Vladimir shoots his uncle questioning glances, and Ivan pretends (or perhaps is too drunk) not to notice. Aurel kicks Vladimir's seat, silently asking what's going on. Vladimir reaches through the gap between the seat and the door and pats Aurel's knee.

"Natalya thinks she's in control of everything," Ivan says as he parks the car on the side of a crowded street. People pass by on both sides of the car carrying Romanian flags with the socialist emblem torn out and sheets with _Timisoara_ painted on them in bright red.

"Um, there isn't anywhere to eat around here," Vladimir says.

"What is she going to do if I take you two to the speech? Keep me locked up for a few more weeks?"

"Vladi," Aurel says with an almost inaudible tremble in his voice.

"Sadik is going to kill you if he finds out you took me here," Vladimir says to Ivan. "We should just go get lunch."

"Fuck Sadik. I've never liked him." Ivan unlocks the door and leans out into the street. "Come on, boys. Break a few rules."

"Vladi, we can't," Aurel whispers as Ivan steps out of the car.

"It's okay. I'll take care of you," Vladimir says, twisting in his seat to reassure his brother. The boy's dark eyes are wide, his little hands clutching an orange as though it were the last real thing in the world. "Hold my hand," Vladimir says. "I won't let you get in trouble."

They follow the crowds to Palace Square; Aurel holds Vladimir's hand as they walk, strangling Vladimir's fingers each time there is a burst of chants or someone bumps into him. When they step into Palace Square, Vladimir is overcome with the feeling something is very wrong. In the years before, there has never been this much noise, this many people. Everywhere he looks he sees flags with holes in the center and people ripping down the posters of Ceaucescu.

The three of them push through the crowd of people to the base of a statue of a man on horseback. "Don't step away from here," Ivan says. Vladimir nods, and Aurel is too afraid to move.

"Vladimir?!" someone shouts. Vladimir doesn't search for the person that called his name. There must be hundreds of Vladimirs here. Who would be looking for him?

Someone kicks him between his shoulder blades. He looks up to see Erzsébet staring down at him from the pedestal of the statue. Seated beside her is Eliot, holding a flag with a hole in it where the socialist emblem should be.

"Why are you here?!" Erzsébet shouts.

"Why are you here?!"

"Come up with us," Eliot says, holding out his hand for Vladimir.

Vladimir scrambles up onto the base of the statue, then turns to pull Aurel up. Ivan hands over Aurel to Vladimir before climbing up himself. Aurel sits down on Vladimir's lap – there isn't enough space for all of them. Erzsébet hands Aurel candy from her pocket and he begins to relax, yet still clings to Vladimir.

"What are you doing here?" Vladimir asks. "I thought you went to Roderich's."

"We did. Then his dad came home and caught us in the house. So we figured we would come protest," Eliot says. "Nothing better to do on a Thursday afternoon."

Far away in the distance, an old man shuffles out onto the balcony of the Central Committee building. The front of the crowd explodes in applause, while the rest of the crowd fades into scattered applause and murmurs. Vladimir rests his chin on Aurel's head. His hands won't stop shaking and his chest aches the way it does when Sadik is angry. He promises himself this will be over soon enough.

For eight minutes, they sit and listen to the same speech Ceausescu has given since the '60's. Vladimir's sure he's heard this script a dozen times before. Everything that comes from Ceausescu's mouth has been said before by a hundred men: Romania is prospering, the economy is thriving and most definitely isn't held up by a lot of dirty money, people are happier than ever –

A cold wind tears through Vladimir. The workers in the front stop cheering.

Someone in the protesters starts booing.

The crowd springs to life, thousands of voices blending into one. Around him, people are chanting for Timisoara. Eliot pulls himself up, wrapping an arm around the leg of the statue and starts yelling for Ceausescu to burn in hell. Erzsébet laughs. Aurel cares more about peeling his orange than the revolution unfolding around him, but still mumbles _Timisoara_ every now and then.

Somehow, the flag with the hole in the center finds its way into Vladimir's good hand. While clinging to Aurel, he holds it as high as he can. He doesn't know what for. A flag with a hole won't end Ceausescu's reign of terror. It won't heal the bullet holes in Ivan's chest. It won't stop Eliot's father from running away or save Vladimir's mother from dying in a hospital without power. It won't make oranges a normal fruit.

Vladimir waves the flag too hard and the pole knocks into Aurel. The orange in his hand tumbles down to the plaza. Aurel slides off Vladimir's lap and jumps down.

"Aurel!" Vladimir throws the flag down and chases after the boy. Aurel is sneaking through the gaps in people, searching frantically for the orange. Vladimir gets close enough to him that his fingertips brush the boy's coat and Aurel ducks between two people, leaving Vladimir trapped.

Ceausescu is repeating _hallo._

His wife is demanding that they shut up.

The world falls apart with a _crack._

Vladimir has never heard a gunshot. He mistakes it for fireworks or the snap of a flag in the wind and keeps moving in the direction he last saw Aurel. As he pushes his way through people – who are moving away from Ceausescu, some screaming – more _cracks_ echo through the plaza. Vladimir realizes the sounds are too far apart for fireworks. Someone a few feet away from him crumples.

"Vladimir!" Ivan grabs him from behind, pulling him into his chest. His coat reeks of cigarette smoke and alcohol. Vladimir looks up at him and is met with wild eyes. "Where's Aurel?!"

"I don't know!"

"Go to the car, now!" Ivan fishes his keys from his coat pocket and slams them into Vladimir's hand, then shoves Vladimir in the direction of the car.

Vladimir fights the current of people to get to the car. Every step someone pushes into him and turns him around and every building looks the same and the gunshots are more frequent and he doesn't recognize any faces and Ceausescu's wife will not stop yelling and he just wants to sit down and wait for this to end but he has to find Aurel.

Through a brief gap in the crowd he spots Eliot and Erzsébet.

Erzsébet hugs him when he gets close enough. She is crying, and her mascara is leaving black tears that roll down her face and stain Vladimir's white shirt. Eliot is trying to speak but his soft, polite voice is lost to the hysteria. He pushes them toward the side street. Erzsébet clutches Vladimir's arm. Vladimir finds Eliot's fingers laced with his. He keeps shouting Aurel's name. If there is a response, he can't hear it.

They reach the curb and Vladimir gives Eliot the keys to Ivan's car.

"Come with us!" Eliot says.

"I can't leave Aurel!" Vladimir pulls away from Erzsébet and turns away from them.

 _What if I don't see them again?_

Vladimir forces the thought down as he scans the area for Aurel. He sees Ivan on top of the statue's pedestal, looking through the crowd. Vladimir moves toward him. Something grabs ahold of his leg and he's pulled to the ground. His chin cracks against the cobblestone and his mouth is filled with blood.

"Vladimir!" Aurel lets go of Vladimir's leg and tries to push him upright. In his hands is the orange, dirty and smashed. He's crying, too, in big sobs that wrack his body.

"Get to the car!" Vladimir points toward the car. Aurel nods and takes Vladimir's good hand. Vladimir turns to wave at Ivan and by some miracle, Ivan sees him and climbs down.

Aurel lets go of Vladimir's hand, too afraid to tether himself to someone slower than him. He sneaks through the gaps between people. Vladimir can't break into a full sprint, so he's forced to stay a few paces behind Aurel. The car is just ten meters away. He can see Erzsébet and Eliot in the backseat, watching Vladimir run for them.

 _Grab him,_ a voice in Vladimir's head screams when he looks at Aurel.

He reaches through a gap.

His fingers don't bend.

It's his left hand, bound by thick bandages.

Aurel slips away.

The boy trips. Vladimir sees him crumble and curses him for being so clumsy. When Vladimir catches up, he goes to pick Aurel up and notices a dark stain on his coat. Aurel screams when Vladimir moves him. It isn't out of fear. Vladimir knows this sound well.

Vladimir pulls his hand away and it's covered in blood.


	4. After

_chapter four / after / dec. 21, 1989_

The water turns pink as it pools in Vladimir's hand. Flecks of blood melt away and stick to the ceramic before being carried down the drain. He turns the faucet off and dries his hand on his jacket. The sleeves are stained red. His shirt is red. His lap is red. His shoes are splattered with red. The bandages on his left hand are red. Washing the blood off his hand did nothing. He still looks like he murdered someone. He still feels like he murdered someone. Fresh tears spring up in his eyes and he clenches the edge of the sink until his arm shakes.

 _This is your fault._

Vladimir looks up at himself in the mirror. He sees someone else's face. Pieces of it are familiar: the stale bruise cupping his eye, the crooked nose, the fading freckles from the summer spent working on a collective farm. Most of his face is new and strange, like the fresh line of stitches holding his chin together. The tears lingering in his eyelashes. The wide, glazed eyes.

He doesn't remember leaving the restroom (he doesn't remember much of anything that happened after he picked Aurel up) but he finds himself standing in the hallway. Voices echo off the scuffed floors and people rush by him. Sunlight pours in from the windows, making the too white walls unbearable to look at.

Across the hallway is a glass door leading out to a small courtyard. Vladimir zips his jacket up to his chin and steps outside. Everything in the courtyard is twisted and dead. The dormant trees reach out for him, beckoning him into the courtyard. Branches scratch his legs as he walks toward a lone bench beneath a bare birch tree. Brown, crumpled leaves crunch under his blood-spattered shoes. The peck of gunshots cuts through the stillness of the afternoon.

Each distant crack could be the end of someone's life.

Vladimir doesn't know why it wasn't him.

The door to the inside opens and shuts. Vladimir doesn't see who is standing there and keeps his gaze on his shoes. He hopes they don't talk to him. Two black and white Adidas shoes appear in front of him. The labels on the tongues aren't ripped through and they're still white. You can't get shoes like that in Bucharest.

"Are you hiding from us?" Eliot asks.

"Go inside," Vladimir says. "I'm fine. Let me be alone."

"You don't sound okay."

Vladimir's head snaps up. He tilts his head all the way back to meet Eliot's eyes. "Is anything okay right now?"

"It's cold. You want my coat?" Eliot says.

"If I take it from you, will you go away?"

"Probably not."

Vladimir sighs. Eliot's best quality is his persistence. It's also his worst. "You can stay," he says, sliding to the end of the bench. "As long as you don't try to make me feel better."

"You didn't answer me. Are you hiding?" Eliot says, sitting down next to Vladimir.

"Yeah. How did you find me?" Vladimir says. How can Eliot be so nonchalant at a time like this?

"There aren't many hiding places here." Eliot looks up at the dead tree. A shot rings out somewhere in the distance and Vladimir flinches and screws his eyes shut.

"Are you scared?" Eliot asks.

"Not about this," Vladimir says, gesturing to everything around them. "I don't care what happens to Bucharest or Ceausescu. I'm numb. Numb isn't the right word. It's like I'm not part of me."

"I felt the same way when my mom sent me here. Like I'd left my real self in Luxembourg."

Eliot doesn't speak much of his mother. After the death of his father, she fell apart. At the time when Eliot needed his mother the most, she decided she could no longer care for him and sent him to live with his aunt in Bucharest, in a country he'd never been to. Vladimir remembers the day Eliot arrived on the floor beneath his with his tear-stained face and suitcase covered in strange stickers. For a few days he tried to break through their language barrier, but ultimately gave up and ignored Eliot for the better part of a year before they were forced together in a long-forgotten school project. Since then, they've been inseparable.

"At least you didn't do that to her," Vladimir says.

Eliot considers this for a moment. A freezing wind tears through the courtyard. Leaves are thrown up into the air and the branches of the birch tree clatter together. "Do you think this is your fault?" he asks.

"It is."

"That's why you're hiding?"

Vladimir shrugs. "It's a lot of things. That's one of them."

"This isn't your fault."

"Then whose is it?" Vladimir says.

"Not yours."

"I need someone to blame, El."

"Blame Ceausescu."

"Someone real."

"Then blame your uncle."

"I mean, it is Ivan's fault that we were there, but it's my fault that I didn't grab Aurel," Vladimir says. He grabs a fistful of his jacket and when he pulls his hand away, there's blood between his fingers. "I should have grabbed him. He's only ten. He can't survive a gunshot."

"Lots of people survive gunshots."

"Are you even listening?" Vladimir says. "Aurel is my brother. He is one person in my family that cares about me. And I killed him."

"You haven't killed him. How did you do this?" Eliot says.

"I let him get away."

"This isn't your fault."

Vladimir turns to Eliot. Eliot is paler than normal and he looks lost. "Yes, it is," Vladimir says. "Everything bad that happens to Aurel is always my fault. I should've done more. And now I might have killed him."

"Fine. Go ahead and tell yourself it's your fault, if that's what'll make you happy or whatever. You shouldn't worry until you know more than he was shot in the back," Eliot says.

"Then what's the point in worrying?!"

"That's what I mean. It doesn't help to worry." Eliot sighs. "I don't think Aurel is dying. He was conscious the whole way here. If it was fatal, he wouldn't be awake that long."

"Thanks, Doctor Eliot." Vladimir glances at the bloody handprint on his coat. Aurel wouldn't let go of Vladimir when they got to the hospital. Vladimir pried him off with the ultimate bribe: if Aurel cooperated, Vladimir would do his chores for a year.

He wanted to go with Aurel and Ivan. He tried. But blood was pouring out of the gash on his chin and someone took his arm and led him to a room closed off with curtains. Eliot and Erzsébet came with him. Erzsébet sat beside him and Eliot held his hand as the nurse stitched the gash together. He didn't feel anything when the needle stuck into him. He wanted to. He wanted to hurt, as if it would cancel out the pain of holding Aurel.

"I miss him," Vladimir says. He can't think of a better way to express the sick, twisted feeling in his throat.

"I know."

He looks up at Eliot. "You act like you know everything all the time. You don't know shit. What if he's dead? What do I do if he dies here? What if Sadik isn't here in time? How do I tell someone that their kid died because of me?"

"I'm sorry I can't tell you what you want to hear," Eliot says. " I'm in shock, too. I can't do more than I already am."

"I hate this. I hate this so much."

"Hey, it could be worse."

"How?"

Eliot picks at a rip in his jeans. "I don't want to think about it. It's something you say to be nice, right?"

"El, can you not be nice for a minute?"

"Doubt it."

"Will you tell me what you honestly think?" Vladimir asks.

"Can you handle it?" Eliot says.

Vladimir considers the truth and how much he dreads it. It can't be worse than the thought of Aurel dying. He nods.

Eliot puts a gentle hand on Vladimir's shoulder. "I'm worried about him, too. I'm scared he'll die. If he dies, it will hurt you more than you think it will. If he lives, things are never going to be what they were before today. Either way, everything is going to change for you. It's changing for all of us, too. I don't know what else you want me to tell you," he says.

"You could just fucking say it'll be okay again," Vladimir says.

"Oh." Eliot kind of smiles. "Then it'll be okay, Vladi," he says.

He comes to Vladimir and pulls him into a hug.

It takes Vladimir by complete surprise. Vladimir has known Eliot since he was twelve and has never seen him hug anyone. Eliot is a closed off person. He won't let people touch him. He holds Vladimir like Vladimir is going to die in a few moments and this is their final goodbye. Vladimir pulls in closer to Eliot and so does Eliot. His fingers are in Vladimir's hair. Vladimir's good hand is wrapped around Eliot's waist. He smells of cologne and sunshine. Vladimir doesn't want to let go.

(He wants to melt into Eliot and stay in his embrace forever.)

"I'm sorry," Vladimir whispers. He doesn't know why.

"You've got nothing to be sorry about."

"Thanks for lying to me. I need it."

Eliot laughs as he lets Vladimir go. "Of course."

For a moment, Vladimir forgets the past few hours. His face burns and his heart is racing. "That's not like you," is all he can say.

"I'm sorry. I overstepped," Eliot says. He's blushing, too. "Fuck. I'm bad at this."

Eliot looks like he's going to say more when Ivan comes into the courtyard. The boys slide to opposite ends of the bench and Ivan stops in his tracks. He glances from Eliot to Vladimir, waiting for them to explain.

"What?" Vladimir says as every horrible scenario starts to unfold in his mind. "Is Aurel…?"

"What were you doing here?" Ivan asks.

"Crying," Vladimir says.

"I was trying to calm him down," Eliot says. He looks like he wants to disappear.

Ivan wants to question them further; however, he lets it go. "Your aunt is here, Eliot," he says. Vladimir can tell he wants Eliot to leave and wishes he would be upfront about it.

"Thank you," Eliot says. He gives Vladimir a subtle wave as he leaves. Ivan watches him until he disappears inside, then grabs Vladimir's arm and forces him onto his feet.

"This isn't the time, Vladik. Your brother's been paralyzed," he says.

Vladimir's world had already been shattered. Ivan stomped the shards into dust. All he can hear is gunshots. He looks up into Ivan's burning glare. "I didn't hear you," he says in a sad attempt at denial.

"You heard me. He can't move his legs. We don't know if it's temporary or not. They took him in for surgery. What were you doing out here that was so much more important?"

"Eliot calmed me down. That's it."

"You two looked like I walked in on something more than talking," Ivan says, throwing Vladimir's arm down.

"What are you saying?"

"Now isn't the time to be messing around with that fucking queer," Ivan says. "Aurel wanted to see you before they took him in. And I couldn't find you because you were out here doing God knows what –"

"I was washing Aurel's blood off my hands and then I came out here to avoid you!" Vladimir pushes up his sleeves to show off the rings of dried blood to Ivan.

"Why are you blushing, then?"

"Because this is embarrassing. My brother has a bullet in him and you're saying I'm gay. I'm terrified Aurel's dying, I hate myself for not being there for him, and _you_ were the one who got us into this mess! You're the one who dragged us out there –"

Ivan slaps Vladimir's cheek hard enough to throw him off balance. He catches the boy and holds him in place, watching with cold eyes as Vladimir takes deep gasps of the cold air in his best efforts to not cry again.

"You should have stayed inside," Ivan says.

"It's not like me being there was going to change anything."

Ivan sighs. "I see why Sadik calls you a fucking disappointment. Sadik is here, too. You need to be there for him." Ivan pushes Vladimir toward the door. "Don't fucking tell him I brought you here, for Aurel's sake. He doesn't need to be fighting with me right now."

"You're just like Sadik," Vladimir says. "You're using Aurel to get me to behave, like I can't be a good person if there isn't someone's life weighing on me."

"Shut up. We're under enough stress without you acting out."

"Every time I speak someone thinks it's me acting out. That's why I was talking to Eliot and not _you_. Eliot understands better than you ever could," Vladimir snaps, pushing past Ivan.

He storms into the too bright, too sterile hallway. With each step, his anger at Ivan fades and the fear of Sadik grows until it weighs him down. He walks as slow as he can toward the reception area, imagining a thousand equally awful outcomes. Sadik will see him and curse him out in front of everyone. He'll take him to the parking lot to hit him. He'll wait until they get home and when Vladimir thinks he's safe, he'll slam him up against the wall. The bruises will bloom on Vladimir's skin for weeks after this.

He turns the corner into the reception area. It is void of any defenses Vladimir could use. Erzsébet left earlier with her mother. Eliot is gone. Ivan doesn't seem to be on Vladimir's side anymore. The assortment of strangers there are too worried about someone else to stand up for a seventeen-year-old.

He sees Sadik sitting in a corner, holding his head in his hands. Vladimir stops. Ivan pushes him forward. As they draw closer, Vladimir notices that Sadik is shaking. His fingers are tangled in his blue tespih, his mouth moving in silent prayers. At the sound of Vladimir's shoes squeaking on the floor, he glances up.

He doesn't look ready to murder Vladimir.

He is terrified. Not in a fun or vindictive way. In a raw, parental way.

Sadik is on his feet in an instant. Vladimir backs away into a row of chairs, holding his hands out in front of him. Sadik gets within striking distance. Every muscle in Vladimir tenses up in anticipation.

His stepfather hugs him.

" _Al-ḥamdu lil-lāh_ ," Sadik whispers, holding Vladimir's head to his chest.

Vladimir is struck by a memory he doesn't want. When Aurel would cry for hours on end Sadik would say _Al-ḥamdu lil-lāh_ when he stopped. Vladimir, being seven and under the impression his stepfather was magic because he came from somewhere where they spoke a strange language and prayed often, thought it was a spell to make people stop crying. For a week he'd run up and hit Aurel and when Aurel started crying, he'd shout _Al-ḥamdu lil-lāh_ to see if he could make it work, too. Aurel, being two and learning how to form sentences, began screaming the phrase out of fear any time Vladimir came into the room.

He has not heard such a terrified _Al-ḥamdu lil-lāh_ since then.

"I'm sorry," Vladimir says. He has no will to fight. If Sadik weren't holding him up, he might collapse.

"I thought I lost both of you when Ivan called," Sadik says. "I'm so happy to see you."

"I'm sorry," Vladimir says again. He means it. "Aurel's in surgery. Eliot said he might die and Ivan said he's paralyzed and I'm so scared and I'm sorry I didn't hold on to him and it's okay if you want to kill me." Everything pours out of Vladimir and he doesn't try to stop it.

Sadik lets Vladimir go. "This isn't your fault." He looks over Vladimir, his smile fading as he sees the bloodstains covering the boy. "Are you okay? Ivan didn't tell me what happened to you."

"I'm okay," Vladimir says. "I tripped and split my chin. It's not bad."

"It looks worse than a split chin."

Vladimir pulls at his shirt. "It's not my blood. Some of it is. Most of it isn't. I held Aurel and I didn't think he'd bleed so much. Is he going to die?" he says.

"I can't tell you. Death doesn't follow rules. I don't want to think about that now. Let me take care of you." Sadik sits down and Vladimir takes the chair next to him.

"Are you mad at me?" Vladimir asks. For once, the answer isn't written on Sadik's face.

"This was not your fault, Vladi. You can't control Ivan or fate." Sadik's eyes fill with tears and he pulls Vladimir into another hug. "You've been through too much today."

They wait for hours. Somewhere in between, Vladimir falls asleep against Sadik's shoulder. He wakes up to Sadik stroking his hair and whispering prayers. Ivan is nowhere to be seen. He closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep before Sadik sees he's awake. This moment is fragile. Soon Sadik will be furious and Vladimir won't have Aurel as a buffer.

He won't have peace like this for a long time.

* * *

 _dec. 24, 1989_

Vladimir is ripped out of a dream by the phone ringing. He sits up on the couch, looking into the darkness. The phone rings a second time. A light turns on somewhere, spilling a yellow glow into the hallway. He hears a door open and close. Natalya comes down the hallway, wrapped in a blue robe that is too large for her thin frame. Her hair is half braided, tied off in the middle by a blue ribbon. She doesn't acknowledge Vladimir as she goes into the kitchen. The phone's fourth ring is cut short as she pulls it off the hook.

"This is Natalya," she says.

Vladimir sinks down onto the couch while she listens in silence. He dreads the next words to come out of her mouth. There is one person bold enough to call Natalya this early in the morning. There aren't many reasons he'd call.

"He's asleep right now," Natalya says.

Vladimir can breathe again at the mention of _he_. His relief is short-lived: the only other man here is Ivan, and Sadik hasn't spoken to him since Thursday and might never speak to him again. Why would Sadik want to speak to Vladimir now? Either something is very wrong or he's ready to be mad at Vladimir.

"I'll take him if he's ready," Natalya says. "He's scared of you…I can't make him…He hasn't been himself...I know it was traumatic. He isn't the type of person to shut down like this, though. He won't say much to either of us and he spends all day sleeping…You should be worried about Vladimir, too. He's taking this harder than anyone."

She pauses, giving Vladimir a nice opportunity to remember how angry he is with himself. Not only is he the source of Aurel's pain and everyone's stress, he's managed to earn Natalya's pity. While Ivan is indifferent and lets Vladimir sulk, Natalya spends a large part of her day worrying about Vladimir and trying to get him to talk. She should be worrying about Aurel (who is much more pain and has a bullet in his stomach) or her brother recovering from five gunshot wounds, not her pathetic nephew who has no problems other than a few broken fingers and a fear of his stepfather. The more she frets over him, the more he despises himself.

 _Why are you like this?_ he says to himself, staring up at the ceiling. _Why do you make everything about you?_

"I'll see you when he wakes up," Natalya says as she hangs up the phone. Vladimir hears her mutter a curse or two before disappearing down the hallway.

"Natalya?" Vladimir calls after her. "What did Sadik want?"

The footsteps in the hallway stop. A light switch clicks and the lights in the hallway come on. Vladimir sees a shape move into the entryway of the living room. Half of Natalya's face is hidden in the darkness and half of it is caught in the moonlight. She resembles her sister more in the dark, with the shadows smoothing out her rough edges and dulling the cold gleam in her eyes. She moves out of the light and reappears at the end of the couch.

"Go back to sleep, Vladimir," she says. "Nothing's wrong."

"I can't sleep. What did he want?"

"I'll tell you later. It isn't important now."

"What time is it?"

"Seven. You don't need to get up yet."

Vladimir can feel her worrying about him, even if it doesn't show on her taciturn face. "Is everything okay with Aurel?" he asks.

"Yes. He finished his last operation this morning. He seems to be doing better. Sadik said he was conscious for most of yesterday evening. He's worried about you."

"Is he paralyzed?"

Natalya hesitates. She sits down on the edge of the couch, putting a gentle hand over Vladimir's. "You know the answer, Vladik," she says. "We can't be certain yet."

"You can tell me the truth," he says.

"You know what I know. I won't hide anything from you."

"Then what did Sadik want?"

Natalya sighs as she gets up from the couch. "He wanted me to bring you to see Aurel when you got up. I'm going to go get dressed. I want you to do the same. Don't wake Ivan up. If I have to see his face, I don't think God would be able to stop me from killing him." She turns away and leaves Vladimir in the dark.

He reaches under the couch and pulls out his bookbag, which he hastily stuffed with clothes and cassettes on Thursday night. He takes a pair of jeans with a huge tear in the right knee and a white t-shirt that's been washed so many times it's closer to a shade of grey.

He ventures out into the cold hallway and locks himself in the bathroom. He tries the lights and they turn on, then flicker out. A small window on the wall lets moonlight into the bathroom, painting everything a soft blue. Vladimir peels off his old t-shirt and sets it down on the counter. It pushes something off and it clatters against the floor before vanishing into the shadows.

Vladimir reaches into the darkness where he last saw the shape. He recognizes the object as soon as he touches it – a pill bottle. He takes it over to the window, holding it up to the light. The bottle must've fallen in the sink, as some of the label is gone and what is left is smeared beyond readability. He can only make out a name and a word.

 _Ivan. Pain._

He twists off the cap and shakes two pills into his hand. They're round and white, like the ones people sell in the corners of the Obor market. Erzsébet stole pills like these a few years ago from her father and they sold them at Obor to make enough money to see _Alien_. Had she not been grounded for three months after her father found out, they would have kept selling them. It made decent money, more than they could at any odd job.

He pours half of them out onto his hand and stuffs them into his jeans, telling himself it's just for emergency cash. Just in case Sadik doesn't have enough for the medical bills. Just in case he has to get away from Sadik. Just in case he finds a legit cassette or real Levi jeans. Just in case he needs cigarettes. Ivan won't mind. He's numbing himself with alcohol, anyway.

By the time he returns to the living room, Natalya is in the kitchen, writing a note. She doesn't notice Vladimir pulling the pills out of his pocket and shoving them into the front pocket of his backpack. He takes a red jacket from the armrest of the couch and pulls it on, then hides the pills with his old shirt.

"Here, take this." Natalya takes a plastic container full of covrigi from the fridge and shoves it toward Vladimir as he enters the kitchen. On the counter is a note in Russian.

"Covrigi? For what?" Vladimir asks. Yesterday he'd woken up to the smell of covrigi but when he went to the kitchen, the countertops and the oven were empty. He didn't think to check the fridge.

"I'm not letting Ceausescu get in the way of Christmas. Give this Sadik," she says.

In spite of everything, Natalya made covrigi for Christmas.

As if nothing's changed.

"Tell him he doesn't have to do anything in return. I know how he is," she says as she takes her coat from a hook by the door. "You seem nervous."

"I'm not," Vladimir says. Does she already know about the pills? Maybe she saw when he wasn't looking. Maybe he's that easy to read.

"Vladimir, if you aren't ready to go, you don't have to."

"It's not that. So what else did Sadik say?" he says, hoping she'll change the subject.

"He wants you home tomorrow."

"I thought I was staying here," Vladimir says. He can't disguise the anxiety in his voice. After three days apart, there's no telling what Sadik's thinking.

"So did I. I'll ask him later about keeping you a while longer until you're both in a better place. I don't see him giving you up, though," Natalya says as she opens the front door. They step out into the hallway and Natalya locks the door. "You need to be with your family for Christmas. Especially at a time like this."

"You are my family."

"Sadik is your family, too. He needs you more than we do. Be there for him." Natalya glances at him, expecting an answer.

 _He's never there for me_ , Vladimir says to himself. "I'll try."

"Thank you for not making me force the right thing out of you."

They walk down to the street without another word. Natalya takes Vladimir's hand, and although he's too old to be led around by his aunt, he doesn't resist. She guides him around a pile of rubble from a collapsed wall, stepping over crumbled brick and plaster without getting a mote of dust on her black heels.

"We need to hurry before the fighting starts," she says. They've been watching the revolution from the safety of Natalya's balcony – this is the first time Vladimir has been down to the street after running inside on Thursday night.

They cross a street with a body on the curb. They are covered in a green tarp, with their shoes and a hand sticking out. A stain of dried blood sits around their head like a morbid halo. Natalya pulls Vladimir along like he's five again.

"Don't stare," she says.

"Why not? They're dead."

"You don't want to remember." She almost smiles as she says this, looking lost in some other time.

Vladimir heard this countless times before when he was younger. His mother and her siblings would say it in unison with a strange, nostalgic look in their eyes. They were told this countless times when they were growing up in the ruins of a war, and they passed it along to Vladimir when he would be sent to bed hungry or have to wear two coats in his home. The mantra worked against itself – Vladimir remembers things it was applied to better than if nothing had been said about it at all.

They pass a line of parked tanks and a group of soldiers sitting on them, smoking and playing cards while they wait for more orders to ignore. Natalya doesn't look at them. Vladimir can't help staring. One of them grins at him. While they wait on the metro platform, Vladimir notices the boy next to him has a gun slung over his shoulder. He can't be much older than Vladimir. They share a knowing look as Vladimir and Natalya get onto the train.

They arrive at the hospital as the sun is starting to peek through the buildings. The waiting room is flooded in warm light as Vladimir waits for Natalya to find Aurel's room. At last she takes Vladimir up two flights of stairs and down a long, bleak hallway. They stop at room 286 and Natalya knocks.

"You don't have to come in if you aren't ready," Natalya says.

"I'm okay," Vladimir says. Anyone can see he is not okay.

Sadik opens the door for them. He comes out into the hall before Vladimir can see Aurel and he closes the door. He says hello to Vladimir and hugs him with much less intensity than three days ago. Sadik and Natalya exchange a few curt words in Russian before Sadik looks to Vladimir.

"I've missed you," he says. "I'm sorry I couldn't be there for you."

"Aurel's more important," Vladimir says.

"He's missed you a lot, too. Thank you for coming to see him."

"Yeah. Is…Is it okay if I talk to him alone?"

Sadik shoots Natalya confused look. She hesitates, then nods. After what seems like a minute of warnings and concerns, Vladimir is let into the room. The door closes behind him with a loud _click_.

"Hey, Vladi."

Aurel doesn't look up from the Rubik's cube in his hands. He's wearing one of Vladimir's old sweaters over his hospital gown. He looks so small, like a pale porcelain doll sat up in bed. Vladimir comes over to the chair beside the bed, more scared than he'd expected to be. Aurel stops twisting the Rubik's cube and gives it to Vladimir.

"I don't know how to do this," Vladimir says. He isn't talking about the Rubik's cube.

"You're so dumb." Aurel takes the cube back and keeps turning it. "What did you bring?"

Vladimir has almost forgotten about the covrigi. He sits down in the chair and rips the lid off the container. "It's covrigi. Natalya made them," he says, holding the container out to Aurel. He takes one and tears it into tiny pieces.

"You look bad," Aurel says through a mouthful of covrigi. "What happened to your chin?"

"I split it open."

"When?"

"I don't want to talk about it. Are you okay?" Vladimir asks. It isn't what he wants to say. There are no words to say what he wants to say.

Aurel shrugs. "I can't move my legs."

Vladimir knew this. It still hits him, hard, like taking a swing of a baseball bat to the head. "At all?"

"Yeah. It's weird." Aurel pats his legs. "I can't feel anything, too. Are you okay?"

"I'm sorry," Vladimir says as he blinks away tears. Two weeks before, Aurel was climbing on the countertops and jumping over the couch. He was kicking Vladimir's shins and running downstairs. And now he is frozen, maybe forever.

"It's my fault," Aurel says. "I was being stupid."

"You didn't do this."

"You split your chin when I grabbed you," Aurel says.

"Yeah."

"Sorry."

"It's fine," Vladimir says. "I probably deserved it."

Aurel agrees with this and launches into a recount of everything. He stops five times to ask if Vladimir's listening. Once he asks if Vladimir cried and Vladimir says yes. Aurel laughs and calls him a baby. He talks about Natalya and Ivan coming to see him yesterday and comparing bullet holes with Ivan. There is no anger in his voice toward Ivan for dragging them into this. He's excited they have matching scars now. He tells Vladimir that he should get hurt so they can all match. He asks about Eliot and Erzsébet and what Natalya made for dinner. Vladimir gives Aurel his Walkman and a mixtape Eliot made for Vladimir.

"One of your Christmas presents is a cassette. Dad told me," Aurel says. "You need it." He tries to hand the Walkman back and Vladimir pushes it toward him.

"I've got a radio. You're the one who's stuck here, anyway," he says.

Aurel hugs the Walkman to his chest. "Really? You'll let me keep it?"

"For now. I'll bring you some more music tomorrow. What do you like?"

"The Beastie Boys. Or Metallica."

"Sadik says you can't listen to that stuff. It'll rot your brain and make you a bad kid like me."

"He doesn't have to know," Aurel says.

Vladimir smiles. "Yeah. Hey, is it okay if I ask you something scary?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you in pain?"

Aurel traces his fingers over the Walkman's buttons. "Did Dad tell you?"

"No. I guessed."

"Well, yeah. I can't feel my legs. Sometimes they hurt, though. And my back hurts. A lot. And my chest, too, when I cry. But I don't cry anymore because I'm too big for that."

"…You aren't going to walk again, are you?" Vladimir says.

"Dad keeps saying maybe. Everything is maybe. The only time he said no was when I asked him if I was going to die." Aurel presses the eject button and slides out the old cassette. "They don't want to tell me the truth yet."

"You sound like you already know."

"I do. You know, too. I want an answer from Dad, though." Aurel wipes at his eyes. "I'm ten, almost eleven. I can handle it." A tear sneaks down Aurel's face. "I'm not a kid anymore."

In a heartbeat, Vladimir is holding his little brother. Aurel is trying to hide that he's crying by pressing his face into Vladimir's shoulder. He's clutching a fistful of Vladimir's jacket as he did three days ago. They've picked up where they left off, this time with much less blood.

"I'm so sorry," Vladimir says.

"Can I tell you a secret?" Aurel says in a shaky, about to sob voice.

"Sure."

"It's really bad."

"You can tell me anything, Aurel."

"Promise you won't tell anyone?"

"I promise."

Aurel holds Vladimir tighter. "Sometimes I want to die so I be with Mom and it won't hurt so much anymore."

Vladimir waits until Sadik and Natalya enter to say he needs a minute and leave the room. He runs to the restrooms at the end of the hall and locks himself in a stall. His breath comes in quick gasps as he wills himself not to cry and yet is unable to compose himself. His thoughts crash in his head, overlapping each other until he hears only noise. His thoughts _hurt_ him.

All he can see is the day Aurel was born. He stands at his mother's bedside, looking at the small baby in her arms. Sadik helps Vladimir up onto the bed and his mother places the baby in Vladimir's arms. She tells him the baby's name is Aurel, and he's going to have to be a good big brother for him.

He sinks to the floor and rips open the front pocket of his backpack. He doesn't count how many of the white pills he shoves into his mouth. All he wants is to stop thinking about Aurel, his mother, the hands that hit him, the way Eliot held him, the taste of blood in his mouth, Gilbert's cruel smile, a long ago funeral. Vladimir waits in the stall until the pain begins to fade and his thoughts break apart. When he cannot feel anymore, he can breathe again.


	5. Road to Nowhere

**this chapter and the following chapter contain suicidal thoughts and actions.**

* * *

 _chapter five / road to nowhere / dec. 26, 1989_

" _Well we know where we're going, but we don't know where we've been. And we know what we're knowing, but we can't say what we've seen."_

Vladimir's sight comes into focus and he notices he's been staring at the wall for a long time. The paper frog next to him is still damp from the rain. His _Little Creatures_ cassette is getting worn out – the voices become warped and distorted and the music slows almost to a stop every so often. The room is so dark Vladimir can't make out anything more than simple shapes.

There is a small white pill in his palm.

On the way home from the hospital today, Sadik stopped to buy honey for baklava. Vladimir bought a Fanta. He hates orange. Orange is his least favorite flavor and he'd rather drink the rusty water from their faucets than anything orange. Sadik didn't notice this. He doesn't remember what Vladimir likes and doesn't like. If Vladimir was Aurel, he would've asked what he was doing, wasting his money like that.

(It was a subtle plea for help.)

Vladimir pries off the cap of the Fanta by pushing it down on the corner of his desk. He pulls open a drawer and sets the cap in with Aurel's collection of caps. He closes the drawer and waits. No one comes to stop him. No one cares.

The Fanta tastes as awful as Vladimir remembers. The pill isn't much better. He swallows and immediately goes to the window and dumps the Fanta out. He sets the bottle down on the fire escape next to a collection of empty bottles and cigarette butts. Icy rain drips onto his arm. It feels like a thousand needles being shoved into him with each drop. He stops himself, letting the rain pick away at his skin.

This has been his life for the past two days – welcoming pain and at the same time, smothering it with Ivan's pills. He likes to feel things that hurt his flesh. He enjoys pain he can control because he hates that he is okay when Aurel is in the worst pain of his life. But the pain on the inside, the thoughts writhing around in his head are too much for him. He's more than happy to kill them with a Percocet.

" _We're on a road to nowhere, come on inside."_ David Byrne welcomes him as he slides the window shut. _"Taking that ride to nowhere, we'll take that ride."_

Vladimir takes the origami frog to his bed. Out of the corner of his eye, he can make out the silhouette of Aurel's unmade bed. It looms in the corner, a constant reminder of what should be. Last night Vladimir woke up and saw someone sitting there. He screwed his eyes shut and told himself it wasn't real and he's too old to get scared of shadows.

Now he sees nothing but crumpled blankets and a crushing guilt.

He takes a shaky breath and turns on the desk lamp. The light stings. When his eyes readjust, he turns the frog over and starts unfolding it from the seam on its stomach. A drawing of a field of sunflowers unfolds in front of him. In the middle of them is a Transformer with a stupid smile on its face. Above it all is a few lines written in blue colored pencil.

 _Vladi,_

 _I'm sorry about what I said about dying. I think I scared you and I didn't mean to. I don't actually want to die anymore because I don't know if they have anything fun to do in heaven or if it's just a bunch of dead guys and angels sitting around._

 _Please don't stop coming to see me. I'm really lonely here and I miss you a lot._

 _Thank you for letting me borrow your Walkman. I'm sorry you have to stay home with Dad and you don't have it._

 _You don't have to be Warpath anymore. I'll let you be Starscream again._

Vladimir folds the letter back into a frog and takes a small box from the gap between his bed and the wall. The hinges squeak as he opens the lid and a handful of memories spill out onto his lap. Most of them are little figures or pins he kept from when he was younger. He doesn't look too long at the photographs after he sees his mother's face among them. The only thing he allows himself to linger on is a note written on the back of a math worksheet.

 _Stop talking to me,_ it says.

Vladimir was handed the note on the bus home. He'd been standing toward the back, crammed between several teenagers and the wall. He opened the note and cried into his jacket sleeve. An older girl asked him if he was okay and gave him some candy from her bookbag.

He crumples the note and shoves it into the corner of the box. He sets the frog inside and closes the lid. Everything he doesn't want to think about goes in the box. It never comes out.

The box is already in its place when he notices a photo next to his leg. It's of a small Vladimir and a younger Sadik asleep together on the couch. The writing on the bottom reads _Septembrie 1978._

Vladimir was six. Sadik was still a stranger to him. In a month Vladimir would go to his first wedding. In a year he'd have a brother. In three years he'd lose his mother and his first friend. He'd earn the damning titles of orphan and gypsy.

In this tiny moment from September 1978, Vladimir doesn't know what's coming. Sadik doesn't look so tired. He's holding Vladimir like Vladimir is his real son. Like their only connection isn't a dead woman. He doesn't know how Vladimir's skin feels on his palm, how Vladimir shakes when he is afraid.

Vladimir shoves the photo into the gap and buries the memory.

The cassette moves to the next track and makes it two notes in before dying in a long, drawn out moan. Vladimir pulls himself out of bed and turns the radio off. He stands by the desk for a long time, not quite thinking of anything but not numb yet, either. His thoughts have melted into a sentimental, depressed mess that he's stuck in. He tries to break free by looking out the window; he sees Christmas lights in a window across the street. A wave of nostalgia hits him and he is pulled under, drowning in memories he's fought so hard to keep out of mind.

They tried to put lights up after Katya died and both Sadik and Vladimir ended up crying on the floor. Vladimir's memories of Christmas are either warm and golden or grey and marked by fights and cold shoulders. It's how most of his memories are. Everything before 1981 is perfect. Everything after is tarnished.

The only piece of Christmas to survive 1981 is baklava. Sadik makes it every year. He saves up ration tickets during the year and makes three pans of baklava on Christmas Day to give out to neighbors and keep in the freezer for months. For a while after 1981, Vladimir and Aurel tried to help. Sadik refused to let them. It didn't occur to Vladimir until years later that baking is how his stepfather grieved.

Outside, Vladimir hears soft footsteps come to his door. Sadik knocks twice before opening the door. "What are you doing?" he says.

Vladimir shrugs. "Nothing. What are you doing?"

"Do you want to eat? I haven't seen you since we came home."

"What time is it?"

"Almost six. Are you alright?" Sadik comes to him and looks over Vladimir. "You're pale. Are you sick?"

"No. I'm tired."

"Are you sure?" Sadik says.

"I'm not lying," Vladimir says. "What did you make?"

"Nothing yet. Are you hungry?"

"No."

"Vladimir, this isn't like you." Sadik says.

"I'm fine, really."

"Will you at least come out of your room and talk to me?" Sadik says as he leaves. Vladimir follows him into the living room. If it were any other day, he'd have said no and gone to bed. Christmastime opens a few old wounds for them. This year, Vladimir's made some new ones. He'd feel wrong letting Sadik suffer through Christmas alone.

The living room is much warmer than his room, due to the oven being on for most of the day. Vladimir takes a blanket from the back of the couch and wraps it around himself before stretching out on the couch. He turns on the TV for background noise and watches Sadik cut a pan of baklava into diamond shapes.

"Why are you worried about me?" Vladimir says, looking back at the TV. It's footage of Ceausescu and his wife in what looks like a classroom. Both look dead. Ceausescu's wife is yelling at someone. She's always yelling. Vladimir and Eliot used to watch old speeches his aunt had on tape and mute the TV, then fill in the words for the Ceausescus (it usually ended in them seeing who could shout _penis_ the loudest before his aunt sent Vladimir home).

"There's a lot going on," Sadik says. "I don't want you to get lost in it. What did Aurel give you today?"

"A paper frog."

"He can make one?"

"I taught him a long time ago," Vladimir says. "It's easy."

Sadik almost smiles, then thinks better of it. "He told me you're letting him borrow the Walkman but he wouldn't show me any of the cassettes. What did you give him?"

"Nothing bad."

"That sounds suspicious."

"I gave him Men at Work and Metallica," Vladimir says. "He's also got a tape Eliot made for me, which is mostly Prince." On the TV he sees Elena Ceausescu crying. Her face screws up in agony and wrath as she screams at someone again. "Hey, what happened with the Ceausescus today?"

"I don't know. There was a trial at three. I didn't watch. I was doing paperwork for insurance." Sadik wipes his hands clean on a towel and brings a plate of baklava over to the couch. Vladimir takes a piece that's not quite cooled and it melts in his hands. It tastes like a distant place and covers up the bitter taste of the pill and Fanta.

"How are you so good at baking?" Vladimir says. It's strange that the same man who breaks fingers can make something so soft and sweet.

"Is that a compliment I hear?" Sadik says. "My family taught me well."

Sadik does not mention his family. For a while, Vladimir wasn't sure if he had one. "Do you miss them?" Vladimir says.

"I miss my brothers."

"You have brothers?"

"Two. They're younger than me," Sadik says. "I haven't heard from anyone since I left, though. I used to send letters every month, but I was wasting stamps. Everyone is mad at me for leaving Istanbul. They acted like I broke apart the family."

"Would you go back?"

"Not likely."

"I'm sorry," Vladimir says. He doesn't actually care, but it's a nice thing to say.

"Don't be. We weren't that close to begin with." The edge to Sadik's voice says otherwise.

Vladimir sees that he's opened another wound and stops himself while he's ahead. He starts to ask a question about Sadik's twenties; he's interrupted by a string of gunfire.

He looks to the TV and sees a cloud of dust. The dust clears and reveals two bodies slumped on the ground. Blood is spilling over the concrete, rivers of red coursing away from the Ceausescus as if even their own blood cannot bear to be with them any longer. A voiceover tells them the Ceausescus will be buried in Ghencea Cemetery.

Ceausescu's reign ends with a bit of TV static.

Vladimir has lived his entire life under Ceausescu. He grew up with blackouts and shortages. Every room in his school has a portrait of Ceausescu. He's gone to so many speeches and listened to Ivan complain about Ceausescu's bizarre demands. He lost both of his parents to Ceausescu. He's never left the country, never seen anything beyond Bucharest. One man restrained so much of Vladimir's life.

And now he is gone. So why doesn't Vladimir feel free?

"That answers your question," Sadik says.

"What now?" Vladimir says.

"I don't know."

"I haven't had a president other than Ceausescu."

"Change is good," Sadik says. He turns the TV off and the two of them sit in silence.

Vladimir can't think about anything. He's confused and so tired that if he closes his eyes for too long, he might fall asleep. There are tears rolling down his face. He hides them in his sleeve.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Is it about Thursday?" Sadik asks.

"I can't talk about it," Vladimir says. "Not yet."

It's more than December 21. It's the note he was handed on the bus when he was in primary school. It's the photograph from September 1978. It's an origami frog and a death wish. It's Fanta and painkillers and broken fingers and warped cassettes and icy rain and baklava and an estranged family and the president being shot on TV and his wife dying next to him. It's everything he's done and shouldn't have done and every missed chance.

By the time Vladimir understands, it's too much to explain. Sadik knows this. He lets Vladimir pretend he isn't crying into his sleeve. He apologizes for asking and leaves to do the dishes.

Vladimir falls asleep there. He dreams he's riding an empty bus with Aurel and Sadik. Outside the window is a field of sunflowers. He asks the driver where the next stop is and the driver says Sofia without opening his mouth. His voice sounds like summer rain. When Vladimir looks back at Aurel there's no one there. In his hand is a bloody bullet. He tries to ask Sadik what happened to Aurel. Instead of Sadik he finds the Ceausescus with a clean bullet hole through their foreheads. Vladimir apologizes and Elena Ceausescu tells him he's going to hell.

Sometime during this, he becomes half-aware someone is holding him. With his last bit of consciousness, he realizes it must be Sadik carrying him. Sadik sets Vladimir down on his bed, pulling the covers over him and muttering an apology. The last thing he sees is two shadows standing in the doorway. The taller one leaves. The short one crawls into Vladimir's dreams.

* * *

 _dec. 27, 1989_

"Did you see the execution?"

Vladimir takes a few lei from his pocket and slides them across the counter. He is dazed from the pill he took this morning and doesn't have to will to engage in a politic conversation. "Yeah. I need Carpațis."

"They had it coming," the man says as he takes a box of cigarettes from the shelf behind him. "Thank God we don't have to live like animals anymore. It'll be nice to have a warm house." The man puts change and a receipt into Vladimir's hand and Vladimir shoves it in his pocket.

"Thanks," Vladimir says, taking the plastic bag from the counter. The man tries to tell him something else about the Ceausescus. Vladimir steps outside before he can finish. It's too early for politics and he wants to get home before Sadik wakes up. He'd also like to take the image of the dead Ceausescus out of his mind; Bucharest is determined to keep showing it to him. It's in every newspaper and on every TV. Their death is inescapable.

Eliot meets him outside and snatches the bag away. "It took you forever," he says, taking a bar of chocolate and a Pepsi from the bag.

"Sorry. Everyone wants to tell me about Ceausescu."

"Who cares? The fucker's dead, and that's all I need to know." Eliot gives the bag back to Vladimir. "You saw the execution, right?"

Vladimir nods. "Yeah. I didn't know head wounds bleed like that."

"It's weird to think he's dead."

"I guess."

"He's been such a big, awful part of my life here," Eliot says. "Probably more for you, though. You've lived here longer."

"He killed both my parents," Vladimir says.

"I thought you didn't know what happened to your dad."

"I don't like talking about it," Vladimir says. "My dad died because of the Lupeni strike. After the strike, Ceausescu sent in a bunch of replacement men who didn't know anything about mining. One of the mineshafts collapsed and killed him. Then we moved here."

"Oh," Eliot says. "I didn't mean to bring that up."

"It's okay. I didn't know my dad that well. I knew he was a gypsy and that was it."

"If it means anything to you, I didn't know my dad, either. I thought he made cool movies. I didn't figure out how much LSD he did until afterwards," Eliot says. "Where to now?"

"Home. I didn't tell Sadik where I went and he's probably worried."

"Since when did you care about Sadik?"

"I don't," Vladimir says. "I don't want a fight right now."

"Oh. Right. What are you doing today?"

"Not much. I think I'm going to see Aurel again."

"How is he?"

Vladimir shrugs. "It's hard to tell."

"Is he…you know?"

"Paralyzed?" Vladimir says. Eliot nods, his face turning red. "Yeah. He's paralyzed."

"I'm sorry," Eliot says.

"It's okay. I need to get used to saying it, anyway," Vladimir says, kicking a piece of rubble up the sidewalk. "Everyone says we can't be sure yet. Aurel seems pretty sure of himself. And he's, you know, the paralyzed one."

"We don't have to talk about it."

"It's easier to talk about it with you than with Sadik."

Eliot gives Vladimir a half-grin. "Glad I'm some kind of help for you. Do you want to go to Roderich's with me and Erzsi later?"

"Can't. I'm still under Gilbert's dumb ban."

"You're really going to let Gilbert control your life?" Eliot says.

"I'm not a big fan of getting the shit beat out of me."

"He won't even be there."

"Maybe. What if he finds out?" Vladimir says, holding up his broken hand. "I'm at a huge disadvantage. And if we get into a fight at school, I'll get suspended."

"Come on, Vladimir. Live a little."

"Will you stop pushing if I tell you maybe?"

"Maybe's good."

"Alright. Maybe I'll come," Vladimir says. "Hey, what'd your mom send you for Christmas?"

"A Polaroid camera and a lot of candy. I'll bring some up to you later," Eliot says, breaking a piece of the chocolate bar off and giving it to Vladimir. It doesn't taste like much of anything.

They arrive at their apartment before the sun rises. Eliot holds the door for Vladimir and without asking they race each other up the steps. Vladimir wins. He always wins because Eliot is too scared of tripping to take the steps two at a time, even though he's got legs long enough to take them three at a time. They stop outside of Vladimir's door and Vladimir fumbles with his keys.

"Hey, about Thursday," Eliot says.

Vladimir shoves the right key into the lock. "I don't want to talk about it, El."

"No, not about Aurel. Um, between you and me. You…You don't think anything happened, right?" Eliot says. He's looking at his shoes. His usual poise is gone, replaced by awkwardness. "Like, you don't think I meant anything besides…you know?"

Vladimir's face is burning. "Oh. No. I get it. You were being a good friend."

"Okay. Because I've been way overthinking it –"

"As usual."

"—and I don't want you to think that I'm –"

"No, you're good," Vladimir says. "Thanks for coming with me."

"No problem. I'll see you later."

Vladimir smiles and shakes his head. "Maybe."

Eliot starts back downstairs. He turns and shoots Vladimir with finger guns, a stupid grin plastered on his face. "I _will_ see you later."

Vladimir watches him disappear downstairs, listening to his footsteps fade into silence. He's still smiling when he goes to unlock the door.

The living room is dark, which gives Vladimir a good chance of being safe. He closes and locks the door behind him, kicks off his shoes, hangs his coat up, and puts the keys on their hook. He turns the corner to put the Pepsi in the fridge and sees Sadik standing at the sink. His back is turned to Vladimir. Vladimir presses up against the wall and tries to slide toward the bedroom.

"Where did you go so early?" Sadik says without turning around.

"I went to go get cigarettes. Why are you in the dark? Turn on a damn light. We have electricity now."

"I thought I told you to stop smoking."

"Maybe I want lung cancer," Vladimir says, taking big steps toward the bedroom.

"Get over here. I'm not done with you," Sadik says.

Vladimir considers risking it all and running for his room. The risk of a fight goes up exponentially when he runs, though. He sets the bag down on the table, keeping a considerable distance away from Sadik. There's no telling what mood he's in yet.

"Who were you talking to?" Sadik asks. He still hasn't met Vladimir's eyes.

"Eliot. He went with me." Vladimir takes the pack of cigarettes from the bag. "I would've told you if you weren't still asleep."

"Why didn't you leave a note?"

"I didn't think of it."

Sadik mutters something. "Natalya said you and Eliot were acting rather close at the hospital. Is there something going on that I should know about?"

"We're friends."

"That boy has always been off," Sadik says.

"What, because he's not Romanian? Because he has an accent and he cares about people? I'm glad he's not Romanian. He'd be just as rude as the rest of us," Vladimir says. "It's not a terrible thing to be nice to people. I don't know why you and Ivan think it makes him gay."

"I'm not saying that."

"Then what are you saying?" Vladimir says. "Spell it out for me because I'm so stupid."

Sadik holds his head. "I'm sorry I asked, Vladimir."

"What did you think would happen when you accuse me of being in love with my best friend? That I'd laugh it off? It's not a joke," Vladimir says. "Everyone thinks Eliot is gay. I don't need you thinking I'm gay, too."

"I asked because I wanted to make sure –"

"You asked because you wanted a reason to be mad at me since you don't have any right now."

"I have plenty of reasons. I'm choosing to put them aside because we are both in a difficult place right now and we don't need extra tension."

"You're making things worse," Vladimir says. "Just be _mad_ at me!"

"I don't want to. I don't want to fight with you anymore," Sadik says. "I'm so sick of this."

"I don't want to do this, either. You're the one attacking me."

Sadik sets down the dishtowel in his hands and goes to Vladimir. Vladimir backs up into the table. Sadik grabs him by the shoulders, rooting him in place. "Stop this, Vladimir," he says. "Let go of it."

"Let go of me!"

"I have been nothing but good to you," Sadik says. "I do everything I can for you. And yet you always choose to fight with me."

"You broke my fingers!" Vladimir tries to writhe out of Sadik's grip to no avail.

"On accident."

"Shut up! It wasn't an accident! You'd been waiting for a chance to hit me." Vladimir lowers his hands and stops struggling. He tilts his head, holding his jaw up toward the ceiling. "Here. I'll let you have a good shot this time. Hit me!"

Sadik rolls his eyes. "I'm not going to hit you. Calm down and stop shouting before you wake up the neighbors."

"You want to! You've _always_ wanted to hit me! I've never fucking meant anything to you."

"I don't want to hurt you," Sadik says.

"Why do you, then?"

"You make me."

"How am I responsible for _you_ punching _me?!"_ Vladimir balls his good hand up and sinks a punch into Sadik's stomach. He doubles over and Vladimir runs for his bedroom. He throws the door open and slams it shut, pushing the desk chair underneath the door.

Vladimir did the unthinkable.

 _You fucking idiot._

He hears Sadik come to the bedroom and sees the doorknob shaking. There's one slam on the door. Two. On the third the chair comes loose and the door swings open. Vladimir is cornered. He reaches for a pair of scissors on the desk.

 _"Don't_ ," Sadik says, holding his hand out. Vladimir drops the scissors close enough that he can pick them up if he needs to.

"I didn't think I would hit you," Vladimir says in a small, pathetic voice.

"Yes, you did." Sadik grabs him by the shirt collar and pulls him close. "Don't you _ever_ hit me again."

"Or what?" Vladimir says before he can stop himself. Where is this bold, rash Vladimir coming from?

"Don't test me."

"I'm not," Vladimir says. "You're the one holding me."

"Allah, forgive me. It should have been you, Vladimir." Sadik looks into Vladimir's eyes when he says this, not even attempting to hide the shame in saying he wishes his other child was shot "You almost kill my son and not even a week later you do this to me. You have no respect for anyone. You think the world should bow to you."

The words hesitate in Vladimir's mouth because he does not want to believe he will say them. "…What do you mean it should have been me?"

"I can hardly focus on Aurel because you are acting like a child. You are the most selfish brat I have ever seen. If it was you, Aurel wouldn't behave this way."

"So I deserve to get shot?" Vladimir says.

Vladimir, like most boys his age, is susceptible to moments of brief, idiotic bravery. Which is why he can't explain why he chose to throw a punch at Sadik's jaw. It felt like the right thing to do.

Vladimir is also an expert on a good hit to the head. He's taken dozens and under normal, sober circumstances, he can keep his consciousness or get up in time to fight back.

He doesn't see Sadik's fist the first time. Or the second. Or the third.

He doesn't feel it until he's on the floor and everything is black.

There are stars everywhere. His mouth tastes like blood and chocolate. He's vaguely aware someone is standing over him and begging Allah for forgiveness. He opens his mouth to speak and can't form a word. Words mean nothing to him anymore. Someone picks him up and sets him down on the bed. Sadik kneels in front of him and holds his head and asks him to look at him. Vladimir tries to blink away the stars to find Sadik's face.

"Vladimir, look at me."

"Did you hit me?" Vladimir says. He's not sure if it came out right.

"Oh, Allah, I'm sorry."

"You hit me?" The stars are starting to fade and he can see the panic on Sadik's face. Vladimir's hands are trembling. He's trembling.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," Sadik says. "You tried to hit me again."

"What's _wrong_ with you?" Vladimir pulls himself away from Sadik and Sadik doesn't try to bring him back.

"Stay put. I'll go get you some ice." Sadik leaves the room.

Vladimir lays down on his bed, still shaking. He draws his knees up to his chest in vain hopes of stopping the trembling. He closes his eyes and when he opens them, the world is out of focus and moving. He buries his face in his pillow. He screams as loud as he can until it hurts his chest and head. Sadik returns with ice and holds it to Vladimir's head.

"Vladimir," he says. "Look at me."

"No. Get out."

"Please."

"You wish it was me, don't you?" Vladimir says. "You want me dead. You want me out of your life so you can have the family you always wanted. I'm just Mom's fucking leftovers to you."

"I didn't mean what I said. I wasn't thinking."

"I don't want to be alive, either! I've hated living in this family since she died."

"You don't mean that," Sadik says.

Vladimir looks up at Sadik. "Yes, I do. I want to die just as much as you want me to, because you're right, this is my fault. It should've been me. There is absolutely fucking nothing for me here. I don't belong in this family."

"Don't say that." Sadik strokes Vladimir's hair in a cheap imitation of sympathy. "I love you, Vladimir."

"You wish it was me. It would be easier for you to put up with my death than to lose Aurel." Vladimir climbs out of bed and grabs his bookbag with the painkillers from the floor. He takes it to the dresser and shoves a jacket and an extra pair of socks inside.

"What are you doing?" Sadik asks. He's slumped over the bed, his face hidden in his arms.

"I'm leaving. I've fucking had it." Vladimir grabs a notebook and a pen and shoves it in his bookbag. "Goodbye."

"Goodbye," Sadik says.

"You're not even going to try to stop me?"

"No. Go if you want to."

Vladimir slings his backpack over his shoulder. "Fine. Don't care about me."

"I'll catch up with you. Where do you think you're headed?"

Vladimir isn't headed anywhere. "Bulgaria."

"What bus are you taking?"

"Whatever's available and will get me out of here faster."

"I love you, Vladi."

Vladimir glares at him, even though Sadik can't see it. "Then you should've thought of that before you hit me. Next time you see me I'll be fucking dead."

"You don't mean it," Sadik says.

"I do." Vladimir leaves without another word.

Vladimir grabs the plastic bag with the Pepsi and cigarettes and sticks it in the bag. He takes extra time putting on his shoes and his coat. He waits by the door for a moment. Sadik doesn't appear out of the room. Vladimir throws open the door and slams it. He waits outside. Sadik still does not come.

Erzsébet appears from her apartment, though. "Hey, Vladi," she says. "What's going on?"

"I'm running away."

"Cool. Do you want me to walk you to the bus stop?" she asks.

"If you want to."

"Wait here." Erzsébet goes inside and comes back moments later with her shoes undone and a pink windbreaker in her arms. Vladimir waits for her to tie her shoes, praying Sadik will come and grab him. He doesn't.

(Of course.)

They go downstairs without a word between them. It takes a few blocks before Erzsébet even asks the question.

"What happened this time?" she says as they walk past the park. Her hand is clutched in Vladimir's and she's swinging his arm. She thinks this is another one of Vladimir's meltdowns, another false alarm.

"He hit me."

"Bad?"

"Knocked me out," Vladimir says.

"Oh," Erzsébet says. "I heard you two yelling."

"Sorry," Vladimir says.

"It's okay. Gives us something to talk about. Where are you going?"

"Away. I don't know where."

She laughs. "Make sure to come back. I'd miss you if you disappeared."

"No, you wouldn't."

"Aurel will."

Vladimir's throat tightens. "No, he won't."

Erzsébet stops in her tracks and grabs Vladimir's wrist. "Hey, you sound serious. What's going on?"

Vladimir wrenches his wrist away from her. "A lot. I need time to think, okay?"

"Are you sure you're going to be fine? Do you want me to come with you?" She starts rummaging in her pockets, searching for change.

"I'll be fine," Vladimir says.

 _Stop caring about me_ is what he wants to say.

Erzsébet doesn't ask any more questions until they arrive at the bus terminal. They stand beneath the cover of the awning and say nothing. Erzsébet takes Vladimir's hand, silently begging him to stay.

"I have to go," he says.

"Don't do anything stupid, please," Erzsébet says as she pulls him into a hug. She presses her face into his shoulder, her untamed curls brushing Vladimir's cheek. "I'll miss you a lot if you go kill yourself like a big fucking idiot."

Vladimir hesitates before putting his arms around her. "I'd miss you, too," he whispers.

"Stay here," she says. "Stay with me or Eliot. Don't leave us."

"I'll be back soon, okay?" Vladimir says.

Erzsébet lets go of him. "Promise me, Vladimir Ioan Cosmescu."

"I promise." It's never been harder for Vladimir to lie.

She hugs him again before he goes inside. They wave at each other through the glass. Vladimir is the first to turn away – as he does, a weight settles on him. When he looks back for a final goodbye, Erzsébet is gone. He goes to the ticket counter and buys a ticket to Giurgiu with the change from earlier. The bus is almost empty, so he takes a seat near the back.

For the fifteen minutes before the bus leaves he attempts to talk himself out of it. He tells himself that Aurel's expecting him. He reminds himself he does not have his Walkman and yesterday Eliot lent him _1999,_ which he's never listened to. He pleads with himself to reconsider and each time, he shoots himself down. He's made up his mind.

He knows there is no place for him here.

The bus leaves a few minutes after seven. Vladimir watches as Bucharest grows thinner and thinner until the suburbs turn into farmland. He turns around and catches a final glimpse of his city. It's the only home he can remember (there is no home left for him). It's where everyone he cares about is (few people care if he is alive or dead). It's where he left Sadik and Aurel (they'll have their perfect family without him). It's where he will last see Erzsébet and Eliot (they'll find other friends). It's painful to look away from (it's easy to hide from).

He takes the notebook out, scrawling a note between calculus assignments.

 _Fuck you, Sadik Adnan._

Vladimir stops writing and looks at the four words. They're bold and to the point. Perhaps a little immature, but he's seventeen. He's allowed to be immature.

The bus stops at the outskirts of Giurgiu before Vladimir is comfortable with his decision. Everything is happening too fast. He lights a cigarette in hopes it will calm him down. Vladimir thanks the driver as he gets off and sets out for a place. He isn't sure what sort of place he's looking for. He figures he'll know it when he sees it. As he walks into the sunrise, he hums a song to himself.

 _Maybe you wonder where you are, I don't care. Here is where time is on our side, take you there, take you there._

* * *

 **a tiny a/n for your consideration:**

 **bro i'm begging you please listen to talking heads! mr. byrne will make you feel things. i recommend starting with "this must be the place (naive melody)" and jumping off from there.**

 **thank you for your time.**


	6. Emmanuel

_chapter six / emmanuel / dec. 28, 1989_

Vladimir leans up against the icy walls of the phone booth, listening to the drone of the dial tone as his finger hovers above the number pad.

He takes a deep breath in. The air in the phone booth is stale with the scent of smoke and sweat. The wind rustles the thin plastic walls of the box, sending chills up his spine. This is not where he thought he would have the last conversation of his life. He closes his eyes, braces himself, and punches in 011. He flinches when he hears the phone ring and forces himself to keep the phone held to his ear, to not hang up when the operator says _alo_ and asks what she can do for him.

"Can you connect me to Colțea Hospital?" Vladimir asks in a small, scared voice.

"Please use 112 for emergencies."

"I'm fine. My brother is in the hospital, and I can't find the number."

"Oh. One second, please."

There is a small _pop_ as the call is transferred, and the line begins ringing again. After a few rings, a woman picks up the phone. "Colțea Hospital. How may I help you?"

"Hi, could I please speak to Aurel Adnan in Room 286?"

He hears a rustle of paperwork. "Name and relation to the patient?"

"Vladimir Cosmescu. He's my half-brother."

"Can you give me his date of birth?"

"September 1, 1979."

"Middle name?"

"Toma."

"Thank you," the woman says. "Please remember all calls are recorded and monitored for patient safety and your call will be terminated if it exceeds the thirty-minute limit. Have a good day."

"Thanks," Vladimir says, but the call is already being transferred. This is his final chance to hang up and walk away. If he hangs up, Aurel won't think over these words until the day he dies, wondering what he could've said different. He won't wish he did more. There will not be a great burden on his shoulders, as if Vladimir's death is his fault. As if he could say anything to change Vladimir's mind.

Vladimir cannot leave Aurel without saying anything, though. He wants Aurel to have something of his older brother to hold on to.

"Dad?" Aurel asks as he picks up the phone. His voice crashes into Vladimir, tearing a hole through him. He's never understood how much he's loved Aurel until hearing his voice now. He still doesn't quite understand it. Aurel sounds like Saturday mornings spent watching cartoons together and summer nights sleeping on the balcony when it was too hot to bear being inside. Aurel sounds like the good in Vladimir's life.

"No. It's me," Vladimir says. "How are you doing?"

"I'm so bored." He hears a clash of plastic and wonders what figures Aurel is battling with this time. Darth Vader and Optimus Prime? He-Man and G.I. Joe? Vladimir feels a twinge of sadness that he will never step on an action figure again.

"Sorry. Did Sadik come see you today?"

The clattering of action figures stops. "No. No one came. Did you guys get in a fight?"

Vladimir tangles his fingers in the phone cord, wishing he could tell Aurel anything but the truth. Despite his many flaws, Sadik is a good dad to Aurel. He doesn't want Aurel to turn on Sadik, too. "Yeah. It was kind of rough."

"Were you fighting about me?" Aurel says. "I told Dad it wasn't your fault and he said he wasn't going to blame you."

"It wasn't about you. We're over it now. Everything's okay with me and him. Um, I don't have a lot of time on the phone. I just wanted to check up on you since no one came to see you today. Make sure you weren't crying your eyes out or anything."

"I'm not a crybaby like you."

"Yeah. You're tougher than me," Vladimir says. His bottom lip trembles and he sinks his teeth into it. "Hey, Aurel, I love you a lot."

"Ew. Did Dad make you say that?" Aurel asks.

"No. I mean it. Listen, there's money in the top drawer on my side of the dresser. I want you to take it and when you can, go buy whatever you want at Obor."

"…Why wouldn't you take me?"

"I'm probably going to be busy. Don't be mad at me, please. You'll understand."

"Vladimir?" Aurel's voice shakes as he says the name. "Are you okay? You're saying weird stuff."

"I'm okay. I love you, Aurel."

"I love you, too."

"I'll see you soon, okay?" Vladimir says. "Be a good kid. I love you."

Vladimir hangs up and kicks the wall of the phone box. The pain in his chest begins to ebb as it is replaced with a heavy peace. He's done everything he can. Now all that is left is for him to find somewhere to finish what his stepfather started so many years ago when he first struck Vladimir.

The door to the phone box cries out in a screech as he pushes it open and steps out into the frigid evening. The streets of Giurgiu are sparse yet filled with artificial life – Christmas decorations hang from every window and multicolored lights flicker off and on. He pulls out the map he'd taken from a stand in a convenience store advertising Giurgiu's attractions (there aren't many, judging by how few locations are marked on the map). He's circled a few secluded areas on the edge of the map, but each one has turned out to be part of a suburban neighborhood that probably would not enjoy dealing with the body of a dead teen. The only place he hasn't visited is the river, which he'd circled as a last resort.

He glances across the street, where there is a poster advertising boat rentals. The smiling family on the sailboat waves to him, beckoning him into the water.

It's either the river or the countryside, and Vladimir isn't too keen on the thought of wolves tearing his body apart. He'd like to return to Bucharest in one piece.

"Of fucking course," he mutters as he folds the map up and shoves it in his pocket. He steps out into the street, wishing he'd gotten off at some small town in between Bucharest and Giurgiu. It would've been quiet enough there for him to kill himself in a parking lot or something. He wouldn't have to die on a riverbank like a fish.

Lights appear at the edges of his sight, and for an instant he thinks a strand of Christmas lights has fallen off the arches above him. Then he hears the squeal of tires and the roar of an engine. He stops, wondering if death has come to him. He hopes getting hit by a car does not hurt as much as it seems to. The light consumes him, and the driver lays on the horn. He hears a voice screaming for him to move.

The front bumper of the car knocks into his leg just enough to throw him off balance.

Vladimir's life does not flash before his eyes. He does not feel his soul leave his body or his heart stop. When he opens his eyes, he finds he is standing on his feet and very much alive. He turns to look at the car that almost hit him and sees the shapes of two people inside, their faces hidden by the glare of the headlights. The driver side door opens and someone steps out into the night, screaming curses at him.

He's heard that voice say those words to him before.

The person stops shouting.

"Vladimir?" Gilbert asks.

"No," Vladimir says. His heart is in his throat. Is this a nightmare or has he died and gone to hell? "Why are you here?"

"What the fuck are you doing out here?" Gilbert says.

There is a long _creak_ as the window of the car rolls down. Someone with bright blond hair leans out of the car, squinting out at Gilbert. "Do you know this freak?" they ask. Their voice is ambiguous, along with their features. Vladimir glances at them – he's never seen them in his life. How does Gilbert know them? Why is Gilbert even in Giurgiu? Vladimir thought his family was East German.

"What the fuck, Vladimir? Erzsébet said you ran off this morning." Gilbert takes a step closer and Vladimir takes a step back.

"How do you know that?"

"I was with Roderich when she came to borrow his car. She was sobbing her fucking eyes out. Said she'd made a big mistake." Gilbert steps in front of a headlight, obscuring half of his face in shadow. "What are you fucking doing?"

"Why are you here?" Vladimir says. This is supposed to be _his_ suicide. Gilbert Beilschmidt was not part of the plan.

"Get in the car, Vladimir," Gilbert says, holding his hands out as if trying to approach a feral dog. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"Hey, babe, this is getting pretty fucking weird. What's going on?" the person in the car says.

Gilbert turns to look at the person. "This is Vladimir, he goes to my school, and right now everyone thinks he's trying to kill himself so I'm trying to prevent a tragedy here and get him home."

"So it's not a good thing that he's running."

"He's – _Vladimir!_ Get your scrawny ass back here!"

Vladimir has exactly one talent: running. He was the fastest person in his class in primary school, winning every race in P.E. and being forced to sit out of the races the neighborhood children made up in the streets. As he grew older, he used his gift not to win races, but to get himself out of trouble. He's outran Gilbert and Sadik countless times. He's outran a lot of his problems.

He's never outran a car, though.

As he darts across another street he sees the lights of Ruse flickering in the distance, separated by a thick barrier of black water. The docks are a few blocks away, with only a fence separating Vladimir from his death. He glances over his shoulder to see the car – a white ARO that neither Gilbert nor Roderich own – speeding toward him. He turns right and slows his pace enough to afford himself a moment to catch his breath. The car takes a sharp right and Vladimir turns around, making a sprint for the river.

The ARO cuts him off two intersections away from the pier. The door begins to open as Vladimir reaches the curb. Gilbert jumps out and lunges for him, but Vladimir climbs on top of the hood of the car and jumps off, ignoring the shock of pain in his ankles as he runs. He hears Gilbert yell a variety of insults behind him, culminating in _fucking gypsy_ before the door is slammed shut and the ARO takes off again.

Vladimir's legs ache and his lungs burn by the time he reaches the chain-link fence separating him from the river. He shoves the toe of his shoe in one of the diamond shapes, dragging himself up the fence as the white ARO screeches into the parking lot. Pounding footsteps cut through the quiet evening as Gilbert sprints to the fence. Vladimir drops down right as Gilbert begins climbing.

"Get in the fucking car," Gilbert says as pulls himself up.

"I'm not going with you."

"Vladimir. I'm not going to beat the shit out of you. I don't care what you've done to me or how you feel about me. I'm not going to let you take your fucking life."

"Who says that's what I'm doing?" Vladimir asks, backing away as Gilbert grows close to the top of the fence. He feels the earth sloping down beneath his feet and hopes it isn't a steep drop.

"Why else would you fucking be running from me?"

"Because you hate me."

"Besides that!"

"This isn't your problem, Gilbert." Vladimir takes another step back – his center of balance is beginning to sway. Gravity is pulling him down.

"It is _now!"_ Gilbert swings one leg over the side of the fence. The person in the car shouts for him to be careful.

The earth slips away from Vladimir.

He's looking up at the pink sky through a lace of dead branches. The dirt beneath him is falling down the slope, carrying him toward the river. He scrambles to find a foothold to slow himself but can't find anything stable to hold on to. At last he finds a branch close enough to grab and wraps his hand around it. Thick thorns cut into his palm and he lets go as fresh blood spills from his palm.

The slope carries him down to the shore, cutting him up with rocks along the way. It drops him with little regard to his broken hand. For a moment he lays there on the sand, looking up at the sky and waiting for the throbbing pain to leave his left hand. When he's ready he stands up and assesses the damage: three deep punctures in his good hand, a few cuts on his legs and shoulders, and a handful of scrapes. He's done worse before.

He looks up to the top of the slope. A silhouette stands in the yellow light from the ARO's headlights. Vladimir does not move. Gilbert hasn't seen him yet. When he's sure Gilbert is not coming down the slope, Vladimir takes tiny steps to the left, shuffling through the sand like a very awkward crab. Gilbert shouts, points, and Vladimir does not stick around to see him fall down the bank.

Every time Vladimir's foot lands, he sinks into the sand. Sand and rocks fill his shoes, making each bound more painful than the last. He hears Gilbert hit the shore behind him, crying out his name. Vladimir can no longer see where the river ends and the shore begins, but he can hear it rushing past. Would it be so bad to jump in and let the cold waters do the rest?

He wouldn't have time to drown. Gilbert (who is an indeterminable distance behind him and likely gaining on him) would jump in and save him before the water could fill his lungs. His best option is to keep running and hope he can wear Gilbert out.

Up ahead he sees a stone staircase leading up into the forest. He reaches out and grabs the railing, swinging himself up onto the stairs to keep his momentum. His races with Eliot up the stairs in their apartment building have prepared him well for this day – he is at the top of the stairs in a flash, while Gilbert is barely a third of the way up. Vladimir tosses Gilbert a cocky smile that he can't see and takes off into the night.

The path in the woods ends in a small parking lot with a sign pointing back toward Giurgiu. Vladimir turns the other way, following the road until it turns to gravel. He slows his pace after checking over his shoulder a hundred times, allowing himself to walk once he's sure he can't hear Gilbert calling out for him anymore. There are few houses along the road, and most of them are hidden behind gardens or long driveways. Light sources are even scarcer. The stars overhead, unmarred by light pollution, fill the sky. Vladimir watches them appear one by one in total awe. He hasn't seen this many stars before. He didn't know there were this many.

He is so enraptured by the vastness of the universe that he doesn't notice the mailbox in his path until he walks into it.

Vladimir stumbles backwards, afraid Gilbert has somehow caught up to him without him noticing. His pulse slows when he sees the rusted box with peeling numbers. Beyond the box is a path leading into a field of what look like people standing in rigid rows. Vladimir goes up to the fence, peering into the mass of silhouettes – they're dead sunflowers, their petals long gone and their heavy heads bent down toward the earth.

 _Here,_ his mind tells him.

He follows the path through the brown, twisted corpses of the sunflowers. Sometimes he sees eyes between the flowers. Other times it is hands, reaching out for him. The path ends before a building in the middle of a field. As Vladimir draws closer, he can make out the shape of a spire reaching up into the sky; it's a church. There's a flickering light above the door that illuminates a hand painted sign: _Saint Bretannio, established 1827._ There are no other lights anywhere else and no cars in the lot in front of the church.

He walks around to the back of the church and finds a sprawling graveyard. The fence surrounding the graveyard is tangled with dead weeds and trash. The sign on the gate says it was dedicated in 1828. It doesn't look like anyone has come here since then. The grass is almost as tall as his knees, parted by a trampled down path. He follows the path around the edge of the graveyard, running his fingers along the rusted fence and picking off bits of peeling paint.

 _Here._

Vladimir goes to the edge of the churchyard. There's an irrigation ditch separating the graveyard from an empty field, though it's long dried. He sits down on the bank and sets his bookbag next to him, waiting for a sign from the universe that he is needed in this life. Nothing moves. No spirit appears to him and begs for him to persevere. Not even the wind blows. The world is dead around him, its silence welcoming him.

He takes the Pepsi and the pills out.

He counts sixteen pills and pries the cap off the Pepsi.

He places the cap in his bookbag for Aurel's collection.

Vladimir's life is in his trembling, injured hands. He's never taken much thought to death before and now that it is here, he feels how final it is. It scares him beyond words that there may be nothing after this. His thoughts and his memories will die along with his body. All of him will end here, at an old church in Giurgiu.

He could never be found and his body will rot here, his flesh melting away and his bones turning white beneath the sun. Someone else may find him, bruised and bloodied and dead and wonder what could have led the boy to this place. Sadik will find him and realize what he's done. Gilbert will come across him and wish he would have done more (or so Vladimir would like to think).

Aurel will sit through another funeral, but now he will understand. Sadik will pack away Vladimir's things. His friends will hate themselves for knowing they could have stopped him. Every year, his family and friends will remember him until he fades from their minds, becoming a ghost of a stepson, a brother, a friend. Time will decay the memory of Vladimir Cosmescu.

 _This is what Sadik wanted?_

He splits the pills into six groups of three.

The first three are easy.

Vladimir deliberates for a long time on the second three. If he did his math right (he probably didn't) there is no return after them. He could walk away now if he wanted to. He could return to Bucharest and…

 _And do what? Let Sadik hurt you? Face what you've done to Aurel? Finish school and fail your university entrance exams? Get into another fight with Gilbert? Run away again? Keep looking for things that aren't there?_

 _There is no place for you. Your place died with Mom._

The second three pills taste worse, somehow. It doesn't help that the Pepsi is lukewarm and tears are beginning to spill from his eyes.

As he prepares himself for the next three, a warm feeling blooms in his chest. He clutches at his shirt, waiting for a pain that doesn't come. His eyes grow heavy and the pills slip from his hands. When he tries to pick them up, his hand refuses to cooperate. His fingers seize and lock up, curling up like fishhooks.

This isn't right. This isn't how he meant to die. Death was supposed to be controllable.

Vladimir tries to stand up and is pulled down by unseen hands. He feels a weight on his stomach holding him down, a foot pinning him to the ground. He can't see anyone, and Gilbert would be saying something. Something wraps around his throat and he tries to call out for help but his mouth won't open.

 _I'm sorry,_ a voice from somewhere not real tells him. _Please stop resisting._

"What are you doing to me?" Vladimir shouts as he tries to stand up again. He is eased to the frozen ground and held there by an unseen force.

 _I'm not going to hurt you. Let go of yourself._

The voice is _inside_ Vladimir. He can feel it in his throat, in his pulse, in his veins.

"This isn't real," Vladimir says.

 _This is real. Please, let go._

"Let go of what? What are you?! Let me see you!"

 _Not yet. You wouldn't understand._

"Let me see you!"

 _Goodnight, Vladimir._

* * *

 _dec. 29, 1989_

 _I'm letting you go. You're crying. You are not hurt and you are not dead. Take deep breaths._

There are tears rolling down Vladimir's face. He stares at the wooden beams across the ceiling and cries. He can't think of anything else to do.

"You're awake," a tangible voice says. Vladimir jolts upright and finds a man sitting in a chair beside him.

Vladimir scrambles away from the man, pressing himself up against the wall. The man does not move. He leans back in his chair and lets Vladimir panic, taking it in with a bemused smile.

The man is not the first issue Vladimir has with the situation. His first major issue is that he's laying on an old bed, wrapped in blankets. His jacket and shirt are folded up neatly on top of a nearby desk and his backpack is hanging on the bedpost. He doesn't recognize the room he's in. The sole window in the room lets golden light in through the moth-eaten curtains and a clock on the wall tells him it's almost eight.

A mirror hung on the far wall is covered in photographs and handwritten notes. Every photo looks as though it couldn't have been taken later than 1970 and many of them are dotted with exposure and warped. The notes are in eclectic Cyrillic, each page filled with so many letters it is impossible to distinguish one from the next. Above this all is a strip of paper with _"I told you that you would die in your sins, unless you believe I am Emmanuel"._

His second issue is that he is alive. He took a heavy dose of opioids, and yet he feels fine. He isn't curled up in agony or on the verge of unconsciousness. If anything, he's exhausted from the chase the night prior.

His third issue and most pressing issue is the man. He's rather tall, looks to be some years older than Vladimir, is wearing priest's clothes, saw Vladimir cry, presumably took Vladimir's shirt off, and is waiting for Vladimir to speak with his hands folded in his lap.

"Are you going to kill me?" are the first words Vladimir can think to say.

"No," the priest says with a warm laugh. "I'm glad you're alive, kid. You could have died last night." The man's voice is thick with a Bulgarian accent. The sunlight sneaking in through the curtains paints a gold stripe over his face, highlighting his sharp cheekbones.

"Did you kidnap me?"

"No. I didn't hurt you. I found you passed out in the yard and brought you in here. It's a miracle you didn't freeze to death."

"Did you… _do_ anything to me?" Vladimir says. He feels like the man is looking through him and searches his mind for any memory of the night before. His last memory is sitting on the bank of the ditch, imagining a life without himself.

"No. I brought you in and warmed you up."

"I don't believe you."

"Choose to believe what you want. How are you feeling?"

Vladimir feels like he's been cut open a thousand times and stitched together poorly. "Fine. You took my jacket and my shirt off."

"I took nothing else off, if that's what you are trying to ask me," the priest says. "I tried to treat your wounds and thought it best to remove your shirt, but I could not figure out how to get it back onto you." He gets up and takes the shirt and jacket. He's fixated on carrying them to Vladimir, as if it is taking an immense amount of strength. "Here," he says. "I'm sorry if you felt like I have violated you. I was only trying to help."

Vladimir pulls on the shirt and zips his jacket up to his chin. "Who are you?"

"I'm Konstantin Georgiev. You may call me Kosta. What is your name?"

"Not your business," Vladimir says. "Where are we?"

"Some ways from Giurgiu. Will you tell me what you were doing in my yard?"

Vladimir glances around the room, which looks as though it has not been used in decades. "This is your church?"

"Not quite," Kosta says. "I'm in training to become a priest. This church is in disrepair and they sent me here to disestablish the church as part of my training. I didn't think my training would involve reckless boys almost dying here."

"I didn't almost die," Vladimir says.

"Do you know what your heartrate should be?"

"No."

"For you, I'd say around seventy. When I brought you inside, your heartrate was closer to twenty."

"Liar."

"You're a very ungrateful person." Kosta smiles. His smile makes Vladimir's skin crawl – it isn't creepy or malicious, though. It's rather warm and pleasant, so why is it so unsettling?

"If you think I'm going to thank you, you're wrong," Vladimir says.

"So you wanted to die, then," Kosta says. "May I ask what's troubling you?"

"That's not your problem," Vladimir says. "How old are you?"

Kosta stops to think. "Twenty. Perhaps twenty-one," he says. "What day is it?"

"December 29. You're a priest, you should know this."

"Then I'm twenty still. You don't look older than ten yourself, kid."

"I'm seventeen," Vladimir says. "Stop calling me kid."

"Then what should I call you?"

Kosta should be glad it's a sin for Vladimir to punch him. "Vladimir."

"Vladimir," Kosta says. He looks lost in some other time. "Like the vampire."

"No. Not like the vampire. I'll kill you if you say that again."

Kosta laughs. His laugh sounds like a thunderstorm rolling across the sky and it reminds Vladimir of summer. "I knew a Vladimir, once. He reminds me of you," Kosta says. "We were good friends."

"I don't care."

"Tell me, Vladimir, why did you come out here to die?"

"You don't need to know."

"Okay. Let me try something else. What happened to you?" Kosta says.

"It's not your fucking business."

"Didn't your parents teach you to not curse in church?"

"Fuck off. You're the one who 'saved' me." Vladimir makes air quotes and Kosta scrunches up his nose, mimicking the gesture at his side. How long has this man been locked away from the world in seminary?

"You can trust me, Vladimir." Kosta gets up, gives Vladimir a pitiful glance, then turns to leave. "I have work to do. You can find the door. I hope God helps you through whatever is going on in your life."

"Wait!" Vladimir climbs out of the bed and follows him into an adjoining room. Kosta turns around and looks Vladimir up and down. He doesn't seem as tall as he was a moment ago. The room they're in feels ten degrees colder. Up close, Vladimir notices Kosta's face is covered in little scratches and there's a big patch of a scar, shaped like a star or perhaps an explosion, above his left eye. His skin is so pale he could be translucent. He smells of some unidentifiable flower and his presence smothers Vladimir.

"What?" Kosta says. Even a simple question is powerful with his voice.

A memory floods into Vladimir's mind. "Last night, someone held me down and called me by name," he says. "Was it you?"

"Do you want it to be me?"

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"Nothing," Kosta says. "Perhaps it was a hallucination. You were delusional when I found you. You raved all night about Aurel."

"I did?" Vladimir says. "You're lying to me."

"How would I be able to make this up? Who's Aurel?"

"Aurel is my brother."

Kosta's green eyes flicker. "You must love him."

"Yeah."

"I don't know what you're going through right now, but I'm sorry you are," Kosta says. He opens a door and steps out into a short hallway that leads into the main church. "You're so young."

"You're only a few years older than me," Vladimir says, following him into the church.

"A lot happens in an hour. A lifetime could be held in a few years. Watch out." Kosta turns a light switch on and flinches as the lights come on. Every light comes on, save for the two near the door sputter out after a moment of flickering. "Oh," he says as he disappears into another room. "Sometimes they shatter. Wait there."

Vladimir is left standing at the front of the church he doesn't want to be in, waiting for a priest he doesn't care for. The church looks even worse on the inside. The windows are smudged and cracked. The walls are covered in icons and fading, worn paintings of Biblical scenes. Shredded pages from bibles and missals cover the floor. The ceiling is painted to look like a sky with stars, angels, and saints, but the paint has started to rot away, and a huge water stain darkens the center. At the front of it all is a dirty gold statue of Jesus on the cross above an altar with a frayed green cloth covering it. Some of the pews are broken in half or tipped on their sides and the floor decorated with broken remains of lightbulbs.

"How long have you been here?" Vladimir asks. He's starting to wonder if Kosta is a priest or just a homeless man putting on an act.

"Not long. There's a lot of work ahead of me," Kosta says. He returns with a broom and gives it to Vladimir. Their fingers brush. Kosta's skin is cold, and not in a human way. Vladimir has only ever felt skin like his once before – when he held his dead mother's hand. "Is it too much to ask you to help me?"

"Yeah," Vladimir says. "What's in it for me?"

"I saved your life. Isn't that enough?"

"No."

"I won't ask any more questions if you sweep up the broken glass." Kosta nudges the broom toward him, arching his eyebrows in what would be a comical expression if Vladimir did not dislike him so much.

Vladimir snatches the broom away from him. As much as he wants to refuse, he does owe something to Kosta. Even if Kosta messed everything up and he has to work through the process of killing himself again.

(Although, he is a little thankful he is alive.)

"Fine, I'll help. But don't ask me any more fucking questions."

"What music do you listen to?" Kosta asks as Vladimir steps down from the platform where the altar is.

"I said no more questions." Vladimir points at him with the broom and Kosta holds his hands up and backs away as if Vladimir's aiming a real gun at him. There is a glimmer of panic in his eyes.

"Do you like Prince?" Kosta says.

"I thought priests couldn't listen to anything other than church music."

"It's probably a sin, but no one is here to stop me," Kosta says as he plugs in a radio and takes a cassette from a pile on the altar. He puts it into the radio and presses play with a resounding _thunk._

The opening chord of "Let's Go Crazy"fills the church. The music surrounds Vladimir, wrapping him in its heavenly synth. When Prince starts speaking it sounds surreal, as though he's standing before them. Vladimir half expects the artist to walk out from the back of the church. It would make more sense than anything else that's happened today.

"This church has good acoustics," Kosta says. "It doesn't have much else, though."

"It's not bad," Vladimir says.

Vladimir watches Kosta out of the corner of his eye as he works, waiting for the priest to pull a gun or try to evangelize him (he'd rather be shot). Kosta catches him staring once and laughs a softer version of his thunderous laugh. There's a huge scar cutting across his throat that Vladimir didn't see before. When he looks back, the scar is gone. Between the ethereal rendition of _Purple Rain_ and Kosta's shifting appearance, Vladimir can't help wondering if he's dying and this is a hallucination.

"Hey, Kosta?" he says.

"Yes?"

"If I were, um, dying, you'd tell me, right?"

Kosta laughs again. "How should I know if you are dying? I could be someone your subconscious made up to cope with the trauma. If it makes a difference, though, I believe this is real."

Vladimir isn't sure if his answer is reassuring or not.

It takes him the better part of the morning to sweep the dust away. Vladimir keeps cleaning not because he wants to, but because it keeps his mind off the strangeness. Kosta asks him a few questions about his life and when Vladimir doesn't respond, he starts talking about his own life. He's a Bulgarian immigrant. He served in the army with the Vladimir he knew. He lived in a small village with his cousin before he came here. He wanted to be an artist but his mother told him to grow up and he felt he had no control over his life. At one point he confesses Vladimir he doesn't want to be a priest. Vladimir doesn't know how to respond to something so deep from a stranger.

"That fucking sucks," Vladimir says.

Kosta sighs and nods in agreement.

When Vladimir's done sweeping, he returns to Kosta with the broom. Kosta thanks him. The scar has reappeared on his neck. He asks Vladimir to gather the broken glass and take it out to the trash by the road.

Vladimir makes the long walk up the gravel road in a minute – it felt like the road was hundreds of kilometers long when it was dark. Grey clouds have started to gather on the horizon, tumbling over each other like ocean waves. There isn't a trash bin out by the street, so he drops it on the ground and figures someone will come along to get it.

The dead sunflowers watch him as he returns to the church; something in them runs away when he throws a piece of gravel into the field. He tries to go in through the front doors of the church and finds them locked. As he wades through the yard, he notices a bare patch of earth near the stream where he was last night. The center is filled with lines of white, like chalk lines at a crime scene.

When draws closer, he realizes the white is the Percocet, each small pill broken into tiny pieces. They are arranged in lines, spiraling out from a center point. Vladimir's fingers go to his mouth and he somehow knows the pills came from inside him.

Vladimir had started to warm up to Kosta. He'd thought about telling him what happened and maybe even asking for advice. Priests are trustworthy, aren't they? But the longer he looks at the spirals of pills, the more his faith fades until everything in him is begging for him to get out. This situation is strange and up until this moment, he's been far too okay with it. From the voice to waking up in Kosta's bed, nothing has made sense. And the spiral just adds to the mystery surrounding Kosta.

He tells himself he'll go inside, grab his backpack, and leave. He'll tell Kosta his parents are waiting for him to come home. He'll run until he's long gone or Kosta catches him and kills him, stuffs him beneath the floorboards of an abandoned church, and burns his clothes so no one will ever know what became of Vladimir Cosmescu.

"Hey, I need to get home," Vladimir says as he goes inside. Kosta is in the small bedroom, looking through the notes on the mirror. He seems taller again, or perhaps it is just the fear rushing through Vladimir.

"Oh?" He rips a note off the glass and sets it on the desk.

"Yeah. My mom and dad are waiting for me." Vladimir grabs his backpack and slings it over his shoulder. "Thank you for not letting me die. Sorry I was so rude to you. Um, good luck with your church and being a priest."

"Will you ever come back?" Kosta says. "I could use help cleaning this place up."

"I live in Bucharest. It's kind of a long trip to make. Maybe ask one of your priest friends or something."

Kosta nods. "I understand. It was good to meet you, Vladimir."

"It was nice to…" Vladimir falters. Every muscle in his body tenses up.

"What's wrong?" Kosta asks.

Vladimir backs away from Kosta. In the mirror on the wall, he can see his face pale with panic. He sees his hand clutching his bag's strap. He sees the bruise on the side of his head from Sadik's fist and the dirt smeared on his cheek from the fall down the bank.

He does not see Kosta.

"What are you?" Vladimir says, his voice all but lost in his throat. "You…You don't have a reflection?"

"I don't?" Kosta turns to look at himself in the mirror and finds nothing there. "Oh. Shit. Fuck. Goddamn it, I _worked_ on that. Can you believe it? Some ghosts only show up in mirrors, you know. But I have to force myself to make a reflection. Some dead people get all the luck."

"Are you a vampire?"

"Vampires aren't real." A dark smudge appears on the mirror. It grows to the size of a person and from it, a reflection starts to appear in the mirror. It's the wrong way – instead of the back of Kosta's head, he sees Kosta's worried face. "Better or worse?"

"It's backwards," Vladimir says.

Vladimir must be dead. There's no better explanation for this.

If this is his afterlife, he's sorely disappointed.

"I'm so sorry," Kosta says. His clothes are fading from black to an olive green. Vladimir closes his eyes and when he opens them, Kosta is wearing a ragged military uniform with the sleeves rolled up. He is covered in scars that wrap around his arms and neck, drifting about his skin. Some of them bleed and some are black with frostbite. His face loses all softness. His skin is transparent – _he_ istransparent.

"You're not human," Vladimir says.

"I was. Key word there, _was_ ," Kosta says. He comes to Vladimir, his footfalls making no sound. Vladimir feels himself lock up, his muscles begging for him to run. "I'm a spirit now. My body's long gone."

"You're a ghost," Vladimir says.

Kosta's image flickers for a moment. "I suppose that's the proper name for it. But I'm not angry or vengeful –"

"Am I dead?" Vladimir digs his fingers into his arm. "How can I tell if I'm dead?"

"Here. Let me see your hand." Kosta reaches out and tries to take Vladimir's hand. His fingers slide through Vladimir's palm. "You're alive," he says as Vladimir gasps and rips his hand away from Kosta.

"How did you carry me in here if you can't touch me?"

"That's unimportant," Kosta says. "I'm sorry, Vladimir. I thought you'd panic so I pretended to be a priest. I assumed you'd be more comfortable with that image. I should have been upfront with you."

"Why? No, how?" Vladimir says. "Tell me how you got me in here if you can't touch me."

"I can touch things that are given to me."

"How did I 'give' myself to you?!"

"I'm so sorry about Aurel. I'm sorry about your stepfather. I'm sorry this had to happen."

"How do you know those things?!" Vladimir tries to grab him by the shoulders and forgets he can't hold onto Kosta. Kosta disappears and reappears at the other end of the room.

"I said I'm sorry," he says. He becomes blurred again. "I hate that I did this to you. It wasn't my place to meddle. I didn't want you to die. You're so young and you've got so much ahead of you and I know it's wrong for me to interfere, but I couldn't let you die last night."

"What did you _do_ to me?"

Kosta looks upward and sighs. "Don't panic. It isn't half as bad as it sounds. I…I possessed you, temporarily."

Vladimir laughs. He's about to cry again. He's sick of crying; however, it's the only thing that makes sense anymore. "Shut up. This isn't real. I'm dying on the yard and this is just some weird dream. Ghosts can't possess people. Ghosts aren't fucking real."

"No. It's real. I only did it for a few minutes. Just to take the drugs out of you and bring you inside. Unfortunately, when I possess people, I become a part of them for that moment. I saw what happened yesterday. I'm so sorry."

"You saw?" Vladimir says.

"Yes. I know you're going to run now. Be careful with your life, please."

Vladimir runs out the door and cuts through the graveyard. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Kosta standing beside a tombstone. Before he can get to the gravel path, Kosta appears in front of him. Vladimir stumbles backwards. Kosta comes toward him and disappears.

Once again, he feels a warmth fill his chest and his eyes grow heavy. This time there is no feeling of being strangled or being held down. They are replaced by a deep sadness.

 _I want someone to listen,_ the unreal voice inside of him says. It sounds like Kosta, if Kosta was speaking through a wall. _Please don't be afraid of me. I don't want to hurt you. I just want someone to speak to._

"Leave!" Vladimir shouts. He can't do much else.

 _I haven't shown myself to anyone before. I've been living in this church for seventy, no, eighty years. You're the third person I've possessed, and only because I –_

"I don't want you," Vladimir says. "I didn't want you to save me in the first place. I wanted to die here."

 _You have your whole life before you. I died when I was twenty. Everything was taken from me. You can't do that to yourself. You need to live._

"Get out of my head!" Vladimir falls on the ground, holding his head. He tangles his fingers in his hair and prays that he will wake up or die. He'd even return to Sadik if it meant keeping Kosta's spirit out of him.

He feels a weight leave from his chest and the cold seeps in and fills its place. A frigid hand touches his shoulder and Vladimir pulls away. Dried grass pokes and picks at his face. Everything smells of an unknown flower.

"You need to go home," Kosta says. "People do care for you. I promise. You need to take care of your right hand, too. It's infected."

"Shut up. You don't know anything about me and you're not real."

"You're right. What I know is that your soul is stronger than most. Not many people can stay conscious like you did during a possession. You're fascinating, Vladimir."

"Get away from me."

"There's no point in me saying this, but if you can find it in your heart to come back –"

 _"Leave!"_

The hand leaves his shoulder and a gust of wind brushes by. In the wind he hears a whispered goodbye. He waits a long time before he sits up. The world around him is grey and dead. He looks at the church. No one appears in the windows. No lights are on inside. When he stands up, his legs are weak and he is lighter than before. A hole has been left within him.

"I'm never coming here again!" he shouts into the silence.

And he does what he does best.

He runs.


	7. Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy

**this chapter contains a mild mention of sexual assault.**

* * *

 _chapter seven / good old-fashioned lover boy / dec. 29, 1989_

The boy emerges from the store at 9:05. Instead of taking his box of cigarettes out, he slumps up against the wall, folds his arms over his chest, and watches rain pour down on the empty lot. His dark eyebrows are knitted together. He picks up a rock from the sidewalk, tosses it up a few times, then throws it as hard as he can into the darkness with a furious scream. The boy runs his fingers through his hair and paces in circles. After a few minutes of this, he gives up and goes inside.

He is the sole inhabitant of the PECO filling station that sits on the side of the road to Bucharest, a worn-down outpost on the edge of Giurgiu. He resides in the tiny store with faded posters in the windows and once every hour, he comes outside to smoke a cigarette. He spends most of his time half asleep at the counter, drawing on his arm and talking on the phone. He has yet to notice Vladimir watching him from the bus stop on the edge of the lot.

Vladimir is hiding from everything here. His head is swimming with questions and fears and self-doubt. He can't scrub the image of a ghostly hand cutting through his palm out of his mind. He is shivering and hungry. His broken fingers ache from yesterday's fall. The punctures in his right hand burn with septic pain and his legs feel melted. He's tired. He's lost in every way he could be lost.

He shouldn't stay here. There isn't anything for Vladimir here other than a roof over his head and the boy.

But he doesn't know what else to do. Without any money to return home, his options for escaping Giurgiu are suicide, hitchhiking, calling someone, or waiting until his family decides to care enough to come for him. None of the options end how he wants them to. And even if he did choose one, he isn't sure where to start with any of them. There aren't many ways to commit suicide here other than standing in the middle of the highway and waiting to be hit (which he wouldn't do, out of respect for the driver) or jumping into the river, and he isn't sure which direction the river is in. Hitchhiking is near impossible. Calling someone would be ideal, if the payphone outside the filling station worked. And waiting until his family finds him is resigning himself to a fate worse than death.

So Vladimir remains curled up on the bench, trying not to think about the future and waiting for the boy to make his next appearance.

The boy returns with an umbrella an hour later, and this time when he closes the door, he locks it. It takes Vladimir a moment to notice the lights are off inside. His heart sinks as he sees the boy open the umbrella, then go to the yellow car parked in the shadows.

His sole companion is leaving.

The boy stands still by his car for a while. He glances toward the bus stop and Vladimir screws his eyes shut, praying the boy does not see him. He doesn't want to talk to him. He doesn't want to be pitied. He does not want someone to care about him right now.

Footsteps come up to the bus stop, muted by the rain. "Hey," a smooth voice says. "I'm headed home."

Vladimir opens his eyes and looks up to find the boy standing in front of the bus stop beneath a black umbrella. His face is hidden in the shadows and he is far taller than Vladimir thought he was.

"I'm leaving." He shifts his weight from foot to foot, fidgeting with the string at the end of the umbrella.

Vladimir does not reply, hoping the boy will dismiss him as a drug addict and leave him alone.

"Do you want, um, a ride home?" the boy asks.

"I'm waiting for the bus," Vladimir says.

"The buses don't run after six until next Monday. Are you not from here?"

Vladimir tries to think up a lie strong enough to deter the boy. "I don't know," he says and immediately wants to strangle himself. "I'm from Bucharest. Listen, I get that you're trying to be nice, but I'm okay by myself."

"Good for you. Do you care if I sit here a while?"

Vladimir shrugs. Taking this an invitation, the boy closes his umbrella and sits down on the bench next to Vladimir. He looks Vladimir over and Vladimir does the same to him. The boy's face is gently angular. He has a smattering of freckles and sweet green eyes. His windbreaker engulfs most of his upper body, his fingertips barely peeking out from the sleeves. Everything about him is worn-down and soft.

"I'm Toris," the boy says.

"I'm Vladimir." Vladimir feels his name leaving his mouth before he can stop it. He's overcome by the urge to tell Toris everything, as if he's known him forever.

"It's nice to meet you, Vladimir," Toris says. His voice sounds like pure sunshine and Vladimir can't believe a teenage boy could be so calming. "You, uh, saw everything?"

"Everything?" Vladimir echoes.

"My psychotic meltdown I've been having for the past few hours?"

"Oh, that. Yeah."

"Cool," Toris says. "I'm not a psychopath, if you care. I'm going through a breakup. Maybe."

"I didn't think you were a psychopath. Sorry about your potential breakup."

Toris smiles. "Thanks. If you don't mind me asking, what's up with you?"

"I'm thinking," Vladimir says.

"You've been thinking for a while."

"I've got a lot to think about."

"Are you sure you don't want a ride? I'll feel bad leaving you alone. It gets cold out here."

Vladimir considers everything that could go wrong with getting in the car with Toris. The only con he can come up with is getting murdered. Getting murdered by Toris seems unlikely, and even if he did stab Vladimir to death and leave him in a ditch, Vladimir would at least be dead. Isn't dying what he came here to do in the first place?

Then again, he's getting sick of meddling strangers who just might kill him.

"Do you promise you won't kill me?" Vladimir says.

"I can't make any promises – oh, wait, that makes me sound like a murderer," Toris says with a nervous laugh. "It was supposed to be a joke about my driving skills, because I've wrecked a car before – I promise I'm not a bad driver! – but also you wouldn't know that because we've just met…Oh, boy, I'm really digging myself into a hole with this one. Let's try this again," he says. He holds out his hand. "Hi. I'm Toris, I'm super bad at talking to people, and I'm not going to kill you if I drive you home."

Vladimir takes his hand. "Hi, I'm Vladimir. I'm having the worst week of my life, and I can't pay you."

"That's okay." Toris jumps to his feet and opens the umbrella, ushering Vladimir beneath it. Vladimir's sight goes black when he stands up. He's about to collapse when Toris catches him, holding him up with one arm.

"You good?" Toris asks, despite seeing that Vladimir is definitely not good.

"Doing great."

Toris doesn't let go of Vladimir until they get to the car, carrying most of Vladimir's weight. Vladimir wants to break away from Toris and stand on his own – he's afraid if he does, he'll pass out. Toris opens the door for him and eases him into the car.

It takes several tries for the engine to turn over. With each try, Toris becomes more frustrated and when Vladimir is sure he will snap the key in half, the car comes to life.

They don't speak as they drive down the vacant road into Giurgiu. Toris puts a cassette into the radio and a Queen song Vladimir doesn't recognize starts playing. Toris glances at him, wordlessly asking if this is okay. Vladimir nods.

Toris is the one to break the silence. He gestures to Vladimir's left hand. "So, what did you do to your hand?"

"Which one?" Vladimir says.

"They're both hurt?"

"I broke this one and I cut this one up yesterday." Vladimir holds up the respective hand, showing off each injury.

"That sucks," Toris says. "Do you need to go to the ER?"

"I'll be fine."

"Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?"

"Yes."

"This sounds really rude, but I know you're lying. You don't look well, Vladimir."

Vladimir starts to panic. He didn't plan for Toris to be concerned about him. He'd hoped to have Toris drive him into Giurgiu and drop him off at a street corner and have that be the end of their relationship. "What do you mean?" he says, trying to buy time.

"You almost blacked out when you stood up."

"I have low blood pressure."

Toris kind of laughs, in the same way Eliot kind of laughs when Vladimir tells a self-deprecating joke, like he's really worried but doesn't want to be rude. "Alright. I'll let you get away with that because that's the funniest thing I've heard today. Seriously, though, are you high?"

"I wish," Vladimir says. "Do you always pick up drug addicts?"

"Not really. You didn't look like them, though. Do you have somewhere to stay?"

"Yes. I'm staying with…" Vladimir scrambles to think of anyone he knows here. He vaguely remembers a boy in his class moving to Giurgiu in sixth grade. "Feliks…um, he's got a super complicated last name. His dad is Polish."

Toris pulls the car to the side of the road and puts it in park so fast Vladimir is thrown into the dashboard. Vladimir reaches for the door handle and Toris locks the doors. He searches for the lock post without breaking eye contact with Toris, hoping to God the boy won't bring out a knife. The lock post is broken off and he can't get a grip on it. Vladimir doesn't know if he has time to break the window. Even if he did get away, Toris has the advantage of the car. And he can't do much in the way of fighting back, with both hands incapacitated.

Although Vladimir told himself earlier he wouldn't mind if Toris killed him, he's beginning to have second thoughts.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Toris says, looking as scared as Vladimir is. Maybe this is his first murder.

"Then why did you –"

"What's up with you? How do you know Feliks? I've never seen you before. Do you know me?"

"I used to go to school with Feliks. I haven't met you before." Vladimir presses himself up against the window, putting as much distance between him and Toris as he can. "Why do you care?"

"Is this a…?" Realization strikes Toris in the middle of his sentence. "Jesus Christ. You're Vladimir Cosmescu?"

"Who told you my last name?"

"I'm Feliks' friend. He said one of his friends from Bucharest told him you'd gone missing and you were going to kill yourself. He and I looked everywhere for you today."

"You…you did what?"

"I'll take you to Feliks," Toris says more to himself than Vladimir, putting the car into drive again.

It isn't a long drive to Feliks's home, which Vladimir is thankful for because Toris won't say anything outside of a few curses and apologies. The road he takes is not far from the road that leads to Kosta's church – if it were light out, the steeple might be visible among the trees. He parks his car in the driveway of a two-story farmhouse and utters one last _fuck me_ before shutting the car off. He sighs and takes the cassette out of the radio, staring at the door as if wating for something to burst out of the house and attack them. A white ARO is parked in the driveway, not unlike the one Gilbert was driving the night before. There is a light on upstairs and when Toris helps Vladimir out of the car, a light comes on downstairs. The front door opens when they step onto the porch and a short boy with bright blond hair greets them.

"Hi, Feliks," Toris says without meeting his eyes.

"I don't want to fight with you," Feliks says. He looks to Vladimir. "God, did you pick up some fucking crackhead on the way here?"

Vladimir is too busy studying Feliks to introduce himself. He has few memories of Feliks other than a first name and an insanely long last name. But he knows Feliks's face. He's seen him before, but where?

He looks back at the white ARO and makes eye contact with Feliks. Feliks's eyes go wide as he, too, recognizes Vladimir.

"It's Vladimir," Toris says.

"Where did you find him?" Feliks asks. For someone who believed Vladimir killed himself the night before, he doesn't seem too overjoyed.

"In the parking lot. Can he stay here?" Toris says. "I can't drive up to Bucharest tonight."

"Sure." Feliks steps aside and lets them step inside. He closes the door, shooting Toris a cold glare. "Take him upstairs and get out. I'll call Gilbert."

"Thank you."

Feliks disappears into the kitchen without another word. Vladimir looks to Toris for an explanation, but Toris is already heading upstairs. What happened between them? Toris made it seem like they were close friends. Did Vladimir do this to them or did something else happen?

Whatever the answer is, Vladimir decides it isn't worth worrying over. He follows Toris upstairs to a bedroom door covered in photos of unfamiliar faces. Toris opens the door and turns the lights on.

Vladimir is in complete awe of Feliks' bedroom. It's twice the size of Vladimir's, and he doesn't have to share it with a sibling. Even Roderich (who Vladimir considers the height of luxury) has a smaller bedroom than this. It's the first bedroom Vladimir's been in that doesn't feel claustrophobic. There is enough space for a bed, a desk, a small couch, and an impressive collection of vinyl albums.

"It was good meeting you, Vladimir," Toris says as he runs his fingers along the edge of a nightstand, as if he were visiting the room of a dead person and trying to pull memories out of the furniture. Vladimir's done it plenty of times with his mother's dresser. "Maybe I'll see you around."

"Maybe. What's going on with you and Feliks?"

Toris' face turns bright red. "A lot. I'm sorry for putting you in the middle of it, but my parents won't let me have anyone stay later than ten and I knew Feliks was home alone, and he knows one of your friends, too."

"Am I going home?" Vladimir asks, feeling like a child lost in a store.

"I don't know. It's up to you, I guess."

"Hey, Vladimir, do you want anything to eat?" Feliks calls from the bottom of the stairs.

"I'm fine, thank you."

"Bring him something," Toris says.

"Okay. Get out of my house, Toris."

"I'm fucking leaving. Hold on," Toris says, rolling his eyes. "If you need anything, Feliks will take care of you. He's actually pretty nice." He gives Vladimir a reassuring grin before disappearing downstairs.

Vladimir leaves his backpack in Feliks' bedroom and steps out into the hall. He wants to use thanking Feliks as a cover to find a way out of the house so he can finish what's been started. He stops in his tracks when he sees Feliks and Toris standing by the door, talking in low, strained voices.

"Here." Toris gives the Queen cassette to Feliks. "You left this in my car."

"I don't want it."

"I don't want it, either."

Feliks looks down at the cassette in his hands. "I never liked Queen, anyway."

"I figured," Toris says. "You change yourself for everyone."

"I tried to care about what you care about. Is that wrong?"

"What was yesterday, then? Was that you caring about me?"

"Fuck, would you let that go?"

"You didn't have to treat me like I did something wrong," Toris says.

"You didn't have to tell me you were in love with someone else!" Feliks storms away, throwing the cassette on the ground. Toris stands by the door, looking like he's on the verge of tears.

Vladimir returns to the dark bedroom and pretends to be asleep.

* * *

 _dec. 30, 1989_

Vladimir slips in and out of sleep all night. Several times he wakes up sweating and tangled in the blankets. By five, he gives up trying to fall asleep. He gets to his feet and takes the folded pile of clothes Feliks gave him last night, taking quiet steps toward the door. It creaks as he pulls it open and he flinches, looking back toward Feliks. The boy is still sleeping, his face hidden by his mess of blond hair.

Every floorboard in the house seems determined to creak as Vladimir crosses the hallway to the bathroom. As he reaches the bathroom door, he looks at Feliks' room. The lights are still off.

Vladimir slips into the bathroom and locks the door before he turns on the lights. When his eyes adjust, he's greeted with his battered reflection. There's a deep purple bruise on the side of his head, hidden beneath loose strands of hair. His face is covered in scratches, and when he pushes his sleeve up he finds even more. He can't bear to look at the punctures on his right hand. His skin is paler than usual.

He looks exactly how he feels.

It takes him a minute to figure out how to pull his clothes off when one hand won't bend and the other might as well be on fire. At last he steps into the shower and lets the icy water wash away the physical remains of the last three days. As much as he'd like it to, a shower can't remove the bruise from Sadik's fist or take away the memory of a ghost. Those are things Vladimir has to deal with himself. Those are things Vladimir isn't prepared to deal with, so he pushes them away and hums "I Would Die 4 U" to himself.

After drying himself off, Vladimir puts on the jeans and t-shirt Feliks gave him. The jeans are a little short and end above his ankles, while the t-shirt isn't quite long enough, making an awkward gap between the waistband and the end of the shirt. Vladimir rubs his hair dry with the towel and combs it into place with his fingers. He takes a moment to revaluate himself in the mirror; he looks like he did last week, with new bruises and an infection in his palm. But at least he doesn't look like he'd been raised from the dead by a discount necromancer anymore.

Vladimir searches the vanity for first aid supplies and a washrag, as if cleaning out the punctures will make them stop hurting. He's the stepson of an ER doctor and knows far more about wounds than he wants to – washing an infected wound helps, but it doesn't cure it. At this point, he needs an antibiotic.

He opens a medicine cabinet and takes a box of bandages and a tube of antibiotic from the shelves. As he closes the door, a white bottle catches his eye.

Déjà vu creeps into him as he opens the medicine cabinet, removing the white bottle. There are three others with the names of various painkillers printed on them, more than enough to do the job. Vladimir doesn't have to drown. He doesn't even have to go home.

He takes one bottle. No one will notice it's gone.

Vladimir turns off the lights before opening the door and returning to Feliks' bedroom. As he inches open the door, he sees Feliks laying at the edge of the bed, his arm dangling off the edge.

Toris is laying next to him, looking up at Vladimir. He pulls the blankets up to his nose, hiding his face.

Vladimir hides the painkillers behind his leg. "I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to wake you up."

"You're good. I wake up at 5:30 anyway. I didn't think you'd be up this early," Toris whispers.

Vladimir doesn't remember Toris coming upstairs again. Or hearing him last night. Or seeing him when he left the bedroom minutes ago.

"Have you been here all night?" Vladimir says.

"Yeah." Toris glances at Feliks. "We made up."

"That's good." Vladimir steps into the room, placing his dirty clothes in his backpack and shoving the painkillers to the bottom. He has to get out, fast. Toris is the type of person to dig deep and find out why someone is hurting and Vladimir can't risk messing this up a second time.

"Are you leaving?" Toris sits up in bed, watching Vladimir fold up the sheets on the couch where he slept.

"I can't stay here."

"Where are you going?" Toris slides out of bed and comes over to Vladimir, following him out into the hallway.

"Somewhere."

"Do you need someone to listen to you?" Toris asks, sitting down on the top step.

Vladimir continues to the landing between the floors, his face burning with embarrassment. If he leaves now, it'll be too suspicious. If he stays, he could fall apart. What is he supposed to do anymore? Why doesn't anyone want him to die?

"It's also good if you don't want to talk. I understand," Toris says.

Toris, perhaps unknowingly, is the most charismatic person Vladimir has met. He doesn't even appear to be trying to reel Vladimir back in and yet Vladimir finds himself returning to the top of the stairs and sitting down beside Toris. Vladimir puts his backpack on his knees and hugs it tight to his chest to keep his emotions trapped inside of him. He will give Toris enough to placate him and nothing more.

"So?" Toris says.

"Can you talk first?" Vladimir says. "I need time to think."

"You do a lot of thinking for someone who doesn't talk that much." Toris rests his head against the wall and closes his eyes. He seems so at peace with everything. What does he know that Vladimir doesn't? "I'm drawing a blank on what to talk about. I don't talk much, either. Ask me something."

"Like what?"

"Anything. And I mean anything. I trust you enough," Toris says.

"Why were you and Feliks fighting?"

Toris' eyes snap open and he loses his composure for a second. In that brief moment, Vladimir sees someone else beneath Toris' laid-back self, someone trapped and afraid. Toris collects himself with ease, though, and even manages to laugh a little. "You're going straight for the kill, huh?"

"It's fine if you don't want to talk about it. I shouldn't have started –"

"You're good. I said anything and I meant it. Okay. You can't tell anyone this," Toris says, looking into Vladimir's eyes. "I'm dead serious."

"I'll take it to the grave," Vladimir says.

Toris smiles in acknowledgement of this horrible pun. "If you tell someone this, it could ruin my life. I am trusting you with my life, Vladimir."

"You trust me that much?"

"Why not? You seem responsible. I mean, I did think you were a heroin addict when I first found you, and you seem to freak the fuck out a lot, but other than that, you're reputable. You seem like a good person. And also I'll probably never see you again."

Toris has the worst standards Vladimir's ever heard of.

"Okay. So...this is so weird to say out loud," Toris says. "I haven't told anyone this. Ever. So congrats on being number one." He runs his fingers through his hair. "Um, okay. Step one." He flinches in anticipation. "Feliks and I are…dating."

"Congratulations?" Vladimir says. He doesn't know what else he's supposed to say. He isn't surprised, considering Feliks's outburst, and he doesn't know Toris well enough to have any strong emotions about his sexuality.

"Thanks. Jesus Christ am I glad you're not fucking normal. I did not need to be punched today. Cool. Step two. I'm not gay, though."

"I…I don't get it."

"I've been thinking a lot about myself, and I'm sure that I'm bisexual. I'll fall in love with just about anyone," Toris says, taking a shaky breath. "I told Feliks this yesterday in passing, because I was making a joke about how cute this girl in our class is. He said if I ever broke up with him and dated a girl, he'd out me to everyone. So now I feel like I can't break up with him, ever. Which is a risk I was already assuming when I started dating him, except now it's real. I love Feliks, but I can't spend the rest of my life with him."

Vladimir does not say anything for a while, letting Toris' words steep in the silence. "I'm sorry," he says at last. "I've, um, never dated anyone, so I don't really know what this is like but I can tell that it sucks."

"I haven't even told you the worst part."

"It gets worse?"

Toris nods. "He didn't talk to me much after I said that, except for asking me so many times if I was cheating on him. And I'm not, which he doesn't believe. So we come back from looking for you and he takes me up to his room and says I have to prove I love him. And he tries to take my clothes off because that's who he is, he doesn't bother to consider my feelings for one _goddamn_ moment before doing something, and I told him no, and he keeps going and I hit him."

He curls his hands into fists, digging his nails into his palms. "He made me leave and then called me at work ten times to fight about it. Then we talked last night, and I realized that I like him a lot, and I want to make him happy. I gave in like I always fucking do."

"And did you…?"

"Yeah. Not in his room. On the couch. Sorry, you didn't need to know that."

Toris leaves it at that. A minute goes by, then another. Vladimir picks at a hole in his shirt's hem. He didn't think Toris would lay something so emotionally heavy out on the table. Vladimir was planning on telling Toris that his stepdad is garbage and he ran away from home and leaving it at that. He wasn't expecting Toris to open his heart to him.

"So, I guess I've got to tell you what's going on with me," Vladimir says.

"You don't have to if you don't want to," Toris says. "You don't owe me anything. I'm sorry for laying my problems on you. I'm so bad about that."

"It's cool."

"I do this a lot. I use my friends as therapists and I don't mean to."

"I told you to go first," Vladimir says. "I need to tell you something, too."

 _Just say your stepfather is an asshole. Nothing more._

"I tried…I tried to commit suicide two nights ago," he says.

 _Jesus Christ, Vladimir._

"Oh?"

"I failed. Obviously."

Toris is unfazed by this revelation. He looks as though he were expecting it. "You're not going to try again, are you?" he says. His hand starts trembling, slightly, almost imperceptibly.

Vladimir becomes aware of the pill bottles at the bottom of his backpack, resting against his spine. "No. I'm not. I, uh, saw a ghost."

"You lost me."

"I saw a ghost when I tried to kill myself. And we spoke. I don't know if it's real or not. I don't expect you to know, either. I don't believe in ghosts."

"Neither do I," Toris says. "How do you know it was real?"

Vladimir wishes he would stop talking; the words spill out of him before he can catch them. "He told me his name. It's Konstantin. He goes by Kosta and he lives in the church down the road from here and I really want to think he's not real but he touched me and his hand slid right through mine."

"I'm sorry, Vladimir, I want to believe you," Toris says. "It's just…a ghost? Here? I'd need to see it."

"It's okay," Vladimir says. "I don't believe me, either."

"I mean, I guess it's a good thing you saw whatever it was. It stopped you from killing yourself, right?" Toris says.

Vladimir doesn't have it in him to explain how Kosta stopped him. "Yeah. He did."

"I know we haven't known each other for a long time," Toris says, tucking his hair behind his ear. "I like you a lot, Vladimir. I'm happy you're not dead. You're an interesting sort of person, and you're not homophobic. That's a ten out of ten for me."

"Thanks?" Vladimir's heart is pounding in his chest and he smiles, for some reason. "I'm happy I met you, too. I'm happier you didn't kill me."

"Same here. If I let you go, you're not going to kill yourself, right? Because I'd be pissed, but I'm in no place to tell you how to live your life."

"No. I'm too afraid of ghosts," Vladimir says with a smile. "I'm going to catch the bus home."

He's going to get on the bus. He's not going to get off in Bucharest. He'll jump off at a small town and find a nice ditch for himself.

"Wait here, I'll drive you." Toris gets up and goes to the bedroom, reappearing moments later with his jacket. Together they walk down to the front door, where the Queen cassette still rests on the floor. Toris picks it up as Vladimir pulls on his shoes.

"You like Queen?" he says.

"They're not bad."

Toris tosses the cassette to Vladimir. "Here. Best song is number eight. 'Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy'."

"Thanks." Vladimir turns the cassette over in his hand a few times before sticking it in his pocket. It's a shame he won't get to hear it. He looks up at Toris, searching for the perfect parting words and comes up with nothing.

Instead, Toris speaks. He looks past Vladimir as he says, "Hey, do you know someone that drives a black…shit, that's a nice car." Toris moves to the window, pointing to the black car parked in the driveway.

Vladimir backs away from the window. It's the GAZ Volga Roderich's father owns and refuses to let anyone come within a two-meter radius of.

"I'm not here," Vladimir says as he backs away from the window.

"Are you wanted by Securitate?" Toris says. "That's _way_ too nice of a car."

"It's a friend of mine's. His father works for –"

Vladimir is cut off by a knock at the door.

"Do I open it?" Toris whispers. Vladimir nods and motions for him to wait until he's upstairs.

When he's hidden at the top of the stairs, Toris opens the door. "Hi. Feliks isn't awake yet," he says.

"Cool. I want Vladimir."

No matter how many times Vladimir hears Gilbert's voice, it always sounds like a bloody nose or a black eye. He leans forward just enough to see around the corner and sees Gilbert standing in the doorway, looking up at Toris without his normal smug look. It's replaced by a strange determination.

"Vladimir never showed up," Toris says without faltering.

"Feliks called me last night and said he was here, and I can see him right there." Gilbert points to Vladimir at the top of the stairs. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be, Vladimir."

"You can't take him," Toris says, as if this is going to stop Gilbert Beilschmidt.

"It's Toris, right?" Gilbert says. Toris nods. "Great to meet you, Toris. I've heard a lot about you. Here's a fun little fact: no one is coming to get that gypsy. His family doesn't know where he is. I am the only one that knows where he is and what he's planning to do. So get over it and let me bring him home."

Vladimir is so shell-shocked he cannot move. This is not how it should end. This is not what he wanted to happen. Before he can run, Gilbert pushes past Toris and climbs the steps. He takes Vladimir by the arm and leads him downstairs, thanking Toris as they leave. Vladimir makes no attempt to break free.

"Get in the car, we're going home," Gilbert says.

"I'm not going," Vladimir says in a sad, defenseless voice.

"I didn't steal this car for you to say you're not going," Gilbert says. "I'm going to get my ass beat by my uncle."

"I can't go," Vladimir says. It's pointless to argue when he doesn't even know where to start.

Gilbert doesn't try to reason with him. Reasoning isn't a tactic he utilizes. Brute force works better for him. He pulls Vladimir to the car by his arm. Vladimir digs his feet into the ground and attempts to twist out of his grip – it doesn't stop Gilbert. After a few seconds of allowing Vladimir to resist, Gilbert decides he's fed up and gives Vladimir's arm such a hard tug it's a miracle it isn't dislocated. Vladimir is hopelessly pulled toward the car, toward home and Sadik and everything he tried and failed to escape.

(He is almost glad to be going.)

He shoves Vladimir in the car and Vladimir looks out the window at Toris, begging for help. He can't fight off Gilbert by himself. Toris shrugs and mouths something Vladimir doesn't understand. Before Vladimir can come up with a plan, Gilbert is in the car and they're pulling out of Feliks' driveway, driving toward home. Toris waves. Vladimir sticks up his middle finger.

"What are you doing?" Vladimir snaps, sinking in his seat. He glances at the door handle and wonders how bad it would hurt to jump out.

"I'm taking you home."

Vladimir doesn't need any more information. He's lost the fight, and in the worst way possible. He will not recover from this. It's best to just be quiet. No one speaks until they're long outside of Giurgiu and the sun is warming up the horizon.

"You were going to kill yourself," Gilbert says.

"Really? I hadn't noticed."

Gilbert doesn't respond right away, an oddity for someone as quick-witted as him. "Vladimir, I hate you."

"Hey, fuck you, too."

"I'll say this once and you forget I said it. I hate you but I don't hate you enough to let you kill yourself," Gilbert says. "You are the most annoying person being I know. That doesn't mean I'm letting you die out here. Every one of your friends didn't believe I saw you, because, well, I'm me. I tried talking to your stepdad and he slammed the door in my face."

Vladimir can't decide if Gilbert's telling the truth or if he's lying to make Vladimir feel worse about himself. "No one but you came to look for me?"

"Not out this far."

It's too honest and kind to come out of Gilbert that Vladimir can't believe what he's saying. There must be something else behind it. Gilbert does not care about Vladimir's wellbeing. He didn't care when he had Vladimir pinned down in the lot and beat him within an inch of his life. What makes him care now?

"You want to look good," Vladimir says. "You don't give a shit about me."

"That too. And hey, we used to be friends, gypsy. You know how much I cared about you." Gilbert leans over to ruffle Vladimir's hair and Vladimir slaps his hand away. "In all seriousness, though, this never happened. I don't want people thinking I like you. You caught a bus home."

"Don't think this is going to stop me from killing myself." Vladimir props his feet up on the dashboard and Gilbert flinches a little at the sight of Vladimir's mud-covered shoes on the black vinyl.

"You won't," Gilbert says.

"I will." Vladimir mimic cutting his throat.

"Fine. I'll play your game. I bet a hundred lei you'll kill yourself before 1990."

"That's fucked up." Vladimir holds his hand out. "You've got a deal."

* * *

 **a/n: another small note for your consideration:**

 **please please _please_ go listen to "good old-fashioned lover boy". it is a criminally underrated queen song. it is, in my controversial opinion, their best song outside of "killer queen". it will make you want to _be_ a good old-fashioned lover boy.**

 **thank you for your time :)**


	8. Underwater

_chapter eight / underwater / dec. 30, 1989_

"I'm sorry that I bit you."

A smile crawls across Gilbert's face. He sits up straighter and folds his hands in his lap, expecting Vladimir to say more. Vladimir looks straight ahead into the morning sun. He said what needed to be said and he doesn't owe Gilbert anything more.

"You are?" Gilbert says.

"No. You started it. But I felt like I owed you something."

"Why?"

Vladimir has played this game with Gilbert many times before. Gilbert's hoping to pry more out of him with vague questions. Whatever he replies with, Gilbert will ask another innocent question that leads to another until Vladimir says too much and Gilbert has enough information to ruin Vladimir's life. He used this strategy years ago to find out that Vladimir is half Roma and has held that over Vladimir's head ever since. He used this strategy a month ago and Vladimir somehow told him he'd cheated on several math tests and found himself facing his teacher and Sadik the next week. While there isn't a lot to admire about Gilbert, his ability to pull words out of people is impressive and unfortunately, useful.

"You don't have to answer," Gilbert says. "I just thought it was weird for you to apologize."

Vladimir ignores the urge to tell Gilbert being a good person isn't a weird and he should try it sometime.

"I told my dad it was a dog bite." Gilbert pushes up his sleeve, showing Vladimir the bandages wrapped around his forearm.

"Great."

"My dad made me go get a rabies shot."

"Cool."

"He took me to the emergency room and made a huge deal out of getting me in. They took me back and the nurse looking at it knew it was not a dog bite. She sent my dad out and asked me what really happened because they are clearly human teeth marks."

"You told her?"

Gilbert shakes his head. "No. I'm not going to tell a stranger that I beat up a gypsy kid and he bit me. That makes me sound fucked up."

"It's true," Vladimir says.

"Hey, we were both wrong. You pulled a knife on me."

"Because you were attacking me? How is that wrong?"

"You shouldn't have been at my fucking house," Gilbert says, his voice taking a sharp turn into anger.

"Sure. You're right. I'll give you that. That doesn't mean you have to kill me for it," Vladimir says. "This isn't primary school. You can't fix everything by starting a fight."

"You should've figured out by now to stay where you belong _."_

"Where do I belong, then?"

"In the ground," Gilbert snaps.

"I tried," Vladimir says. "That's the whole fucking reason I'm here."

"That's not what I meant." The fury in Gilbert's voice is gone, replaced by apathy. It's the closest to caring Vladimir has seen out of him in a long time.

They go quiet, not sure what to make of the other.

The last time they spoke like this, they were nine.

Vladimir followed Gilbert home when they got off the bus – this was before he moved, and their flats were a few blocks apart. Gilbert walked as fast as he could, ignoring Vladimir pulling on his shirt and asking him what he meant. When they came to the corner of the street Gilbert lived on, Gilbert spun around on his heels and told Vladimir to learn how to read.

He knew what the words _stop talking to me_ on the back of the worksheet meant. Vladimir forced himself to believe it was a joke because he knew in his heart that it wasn't.

They were nine. They didn't know how to talk about death. Gilbert couldn't understand why Vladimir cried about everything, so he distanced himself. He told everyone in their class that Vladimir was a gypsy. He ignored Vladimir when he tried to ask what happened between them. And he delivered the final blow one sleepy afternoon, standing on a street corner beneath a lamppost.

"I hate you," Gilbert said.

"What did I do?" Vladimir asked, clutching the crumpled math worksheet.

"I don't know." Gilbert glanced over his shoulder as if someone were watching them. "I have to go home now. Don't talk to me anymore."

That was eight years ago, and neither of them have moved past it. It left a deep scar on Vladimir – being betrayed and hated for nothing made him so self-conscious he stopped talking to people and isolated himself from everyone at a time when he needed other people. Gilbert never got over whatever it was that made him despise Vladimir. His hatred only grew and took on new, more violent forms.

"I have to go," Vladimir says, starting to open the car door. He can't bear to be in the car with Gilbert anymore.

"Vladimir, I…" Gilbert falters. Vladimir turns to him, waiting for an apology that will never come. "Can I finish my story?" he asks.

"I don't care."

Gilbert tries to wait until he has Vladimir's full attention. It takes a few awkward moments for him to see he has about a third of Vladimir attention, and he starts again. "This nurse asks why I have human teeth marks on my arm, and I'm not about to tell her that you bit me. So I made up this huge story about how this girl I'm seeing is into some weird things and she bit me. And the nurse kind of nods and I'm thinking I got away with it. We get the paperwork taken care of, my dad talks with the nurse, and I get in the car with my dad. He doesn't start driving. Instead he asks me who I'm dating."

"You're not with anyone," Vladimir says, more to insult Gilbert than to help the story along.

"Exactly. I said he wouldn't know her, she goes to a school in Vitan. Then he asks me when I have time to, and I – you remember my dad, right?" he says. "Like, he does not joke, at all. I haven't ever seen him laugh. I've seen him smile maybe five times."

Gilbert looks like he's waiting for an answer. Vladimir offers him a nod.

"Okay," Gilbert says, "He asks me when I have, and I quote, 'time for erotic sex'. And I had to physically restrain myself from laughing out loud. I said Saturdays, because how else should I answer that? He didn't say anything else about it until we get home and we go inside. Ludwig's in the kitchen with my mom. Instead of my dad taking my mom out of the room, he chooses to tell my mother in front of Ludwig that I'm having real fucking kinky sex with a girl on Saturdays. Now Ludwig won't speak to me and my mom checks my arms for bite marks."

Vladimir takes a moment to process this. He doesn't come up with a good response (is there even a right thing to say?) and leaves the car without another word. Gilbert jumps out of the car and chases after Vladimir, following him into the apartment.

"Don't come with me," Vladimir says.

Gilbert swings himself in front of Vladimir. He looks caught between being mortified and furious. "You can't walk away from that without saying anything," he says. "At least tell me what you're thinking."

Vladimir, in spite of his unyielding hatred for Gilbert, starts laughing.

Gilbert's panic eases a little. "Is this good or bad?" he asks.

"You're such an idiot," Vladimir says in between laughs. He pushes past Gilbert and begins the short climb upstairs.

His laughter fades with each step until he reaches the second-floor landing and comes face to face with the truth.

"Is this what you want to do?" Gilbert says.

"I'm not sure." Vladimir considers turning around and running away. Where is there to go, though? He doesn't think Gilbert will let him escape.

Gilbert stays by his side as he goes up to the door and Vladimir can't decide if it's better or worse that he's here. He takes a deep breath and exhales. Vladimir will have to do this sometime. This is inevitable. Inevitability doesn't make it any easier, though. He knocks on the door, preparing himself for a thousand questions and tears.

Natalya answers the door with her latest cross-stitch piece in hand. She gives Vladimir an almost concerned look. "Hello, Vladimir. It's good to see you," she says as she steps away from the door, stabbing her embroidery needle through the fabric. "You've brought a friend."

Vladimir feels like Natalya pulled the floor out from underneath him. She motions for them to come inside and Vladimir takes a few numb steps forward, his world melting and his thoughts dissolving. Gilbert introduces himself. Natalya says she remembers hearing his name and asks if they would like anything. Gilbert doesn't have time to answer before Natalya sets off for the kitchen to make tea and warm up covrigi.

He stands in the doorway for far too long, hoping he'll understand what's happened. Gilbert pushes him into motion and tells him not to be rude. Vladimir nods and takes his shoes off.

"That's an interesting look," Natalya says, motioning to Vladimir's too-small shirt and jeans.

"I borrowed them from a friend," Vladimir says, picking at the hem of the shirt.

"Vanya, Vladimir's here," Natalya says as Gilbert and Vladimir sit down at the kitchen table. Ivan appears a few moments later, half-asleep and asking Natalya what's going on. "This is Gilbert, one of Vladimir's friends," she says, placing a delicate hand on Gilbert's shoulder. He shoots Vladimir a smug look and Vladimir is too stunned to respond.

"You're not bringing bad news, are you?" Ivan says from across the table.

Vladimir doesn't notice Ivan was speaking to him until Gilbert nudges him under the table. "Bad news?" he says. "Uh, no. I don't think so."

"Thank God. We were so worried after Sadik told us about Aurel," Natalya says. She places a plate of covrigi down on the table and gives Gilbert and Vladimir cups full of linden tea.

"Aurel?" both Gilbert and Vladimir say at the same time.

"What happened to Aurel?" Gilbert asks.

"You don't know what happened to me this…?" Vladimir says, looking up at his aunt. Her face is blank. If she knew about Vladimir running away to kill himself, she wouldn't be offering him tea and covrigi. Even if she only knew about him running away, she'd have sat him down on the couch and conducted a full interrogation.

"What happened to Aurel?" Gilbert repeats. "You didn't tell me about him."

"He was shot. That's not important. It _is_ important, but not right now. You two don't know what happened to me?" Vladimir looks from Natalya to Ivan. They both look confused.

"Is everything alright?" Natalya asks.

 _Sadik didn't tell them._

 _I could be dead right now and they wouldn't know._

"He got shot?" Gilbert says, interrupting Vladimir's profound realization. "When? Why? How did I not hear about this?"

Vladimir manages to pull himself together enough to form a proper answer. "At the speech. He's been in the hospital for a while. Didn't Roderich tell you?"

"We don't talk about you," Gilbert says. "Jesus Christ, I'm so sorry. I didn't know. Is he okay?"

"No. He's paralyzed. What did Sadik tell you?" Vladimir asks Natalya. "He hasn't told me anything."

Her eyebrows knit together. "He said he told you."

"I spent the past two days with Gilbert," Vladimir says. Gilbert nods in agreement. "Sadik and I got in another fight and I needed time away," he adds. It isn't entirely a lie.

Natalya sits down next to Vladimir, putting her hand over his. "I don't know much about it. Sadik called yesterday and said Aurel got upset after you'd called him and he'd stabbed his leg with a fork. He wouldn't give us any other details. I haven't heard from him since then."

With that, the conversation drifts away from Aurel. Ivan asks how Gilbert and Vladimir know each other and Vladimir hears Gilbert lie his way through stories about school and parties. He digs his nails into his infected palm and wants to shut his thoughts off.

At some point, Gilbert says he needs to take the car home. Vladimir goes with him and says his goodbyes to Natalya and Ivan. He'd meant to stay here to keep himself safe from Sadik, but Vladimir can see that they're going to call Sadik later. He can tell they don't trust him. At least he won't have to suffer through a barrage of questions from them.

Gilbert drives Vladimir home. He stops two blocks away from Vladimir's apartment so no one will see him.

"Don't talk to anyone about this, ever," he says in a low voice as Vladimir gets out of the car.

"I won't," Vladimir says.

"Hey, I'm sorry about Aurel. Really."

"Thanks."

Vladimir shuts the door and Gilbert drives off. He walks home, even though he'd rather run away. He's got nowhere to run to. All that's left for him to do is face reality.

He _hurt_ Aurel.

He can't hurt him any more than he already has. He'll take a thousand beatings from Sadik if it means Aurel is safe.

When he reaches the landing between the third and fourth floors, he sees Eliot and Erzsébet waiting for him at the top of the stairs, talking in low voices. They jump to their feet and run down to greet him, smothering him in a hug. There are a thousand questions being thrown his way and he doesn't have an answer to any of them.

Erzsébet gently slaps his face, enough to sting yet not leave a handprint. "Don't you ever pull this shit again," she says. "I almost got fucking worried about you." She keeps herself from being too concerned by saying he's such an asshole and going upstairs to her apartment. Before she goes inside, she looks over her shoulder and smiles. "It's good to have you home, Dracula."

Vladimir knows she'll be in his room later, holding him and crying.

When her door is shut, Eliot pulls Vladimir into another hug, much more desperate than the first. Vladimir puts his arms around his friend's waist; in an instant he forgets everything that's happened in the last weeks of 1989.

"I thought you were fucking gone," Eliot says, burying his face in Vladimir's shoulder. Vladimir can feel his heart racing. "I didn't want to think Gilbert was right."

"He told you?" Vladimir says.

"We didn't believe him. God, I'm so _stupid_."

"I'm sorry."

Eliot breaks away, holding Vladimir out at arm's length. "You're here now. That's all I care about. We were about to go look for you. I didn't think we'd find you…"

"Alive," Vladimir finishes. "Me too."

"What happened? Why didn't you tell me?"

A wall of guilt hits Vladimir two days late. Why didn't he feel this when he was running away? Why does he only feel it now, when looking into Eliot's frantic eyes? "I can't talk about it yet," he says. "I'll see you soon, alright? I'm sure Sadik is going to murder me."

Vladimir tries to walk upstairs; Eliot grabs his wrist and holds him in place.

"Vladimir, I…Don't do this to us again," Eliot says. "Please. You can talk to me about whatever you need to. I'll listen. Don't leave me alone. I – we were so scared. Erzsi doesn't act like it now, but she was crying ten minutes ago. I couldn't do anything for her. I couldn't do anything to help you and I felt horrible. I…I missed you so much."

Vladimir can't do anything to fix what he's done to Eliot.

(He can't say the words he needs to.)

He does the worst thing he can think of doing to Eliot: he rips his hand free and walks upstairs as fast as he can without running away. "I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay?" he says as he opens his front door. Eliot looks like Vladimir stabbed him in the stomach.

And he shuts the door, leaving Eliot standing alone on the landing.

Sadik is in the living room, folding laundry on the coffee table while watching the morning news. He does not look up at Vladimir, as if nothing happened and this is a normal morning. Vladimir goes through every emotion as he stands there watching his stepfather fold a t-shirt.

"I'm home," Vladimir says like it isn't obvious.

Sadik does not acknowledge Vladimir's presence.

"You didn't tell anyone about me."

Sadik places a stack of shirts in the basket next to him.

"I heard about Aurel."

Sadik nods.

"You don't care, do you?" Vladimir walks past him to go to his room, stopping for a second next to the couch in hopes Sadik will say something, no, anything. He could tell Vladimir he hated him and it would be better than silence.

Still, Sadik is quiet. He is locked in a vacant stare, the TV reflecting off his empty eyes. His hands move slow and robotic.

"Say something!" Vladimir shouts, kicking the couch. "Just say something!"

It is then that Vladimir notices his stepfather's bottom lip is bleeding.

Sadik and Aurel share a nervous tick – whenever they're stressed, they pick at the skin on their bottom lip. Vladimir has seen Aurel scratch his lip until it bleeds a little. Not to the level that Sadik has. His entire bottom lip is a mangled mess of blood and flesh.

"I'm glad you're home," Sadik says. His teeth and tongue are stained with his blood.

Vladimir goes straight to his room, sits down on the floor, and wishes he understood.

* * *

 _dec. 31, 1989_

The phone rings at one.

Vladimir does not get up, hoping Sadik will be too busy to answer. He hears a chair scrape on the floor and footsteps that fade into the white noise of the grey afternoon. The phone stops ringing, and Vladimir counts the rings in his head – was it seven or eight? He prays it's eight. He knows it's seven.

"Vladimir!" Sadik says. "Phone!"

"Tell him I'm asleep," Vladimir says.

"Vladimir says he's asleep," Sadik says. Vladimir pulls himself out of bed and trudges down the hallway to the kitchen, where Sadik is holding the phone out, waiting. He mutters a thank you and snatches the phone from his stepfather's hand.

"What?" he growls as he pulls the phone up to his ear.

"Just making sure you're not dead. I would hate to win my bet," Gilbert says. Smooth and conceited, as always.

"I told you to stop calling me," Vladimir says.

"How else would I keep you alive?"

Vladimir considers hanging up. He's hung up the other two times Gilbert called today. "Thanks for making my suffering into a fun little game."

"Hey, no problem. How are you doing so far?"

"I'm sick, Gilbert. Nothing's changed in two hours."

"Well, you're not dead. Which is a huge loss for me. I told Roderich about our bet, by the way, and he about killed me for it," Gilbert says. "He thinks I want you to kill yourself."

"You're making it very tempting," Vladimir says. "Stop calling me."

"Fine. Go back to being sick or whatever. I'll call around five. Don't you dare die –"

Vladimir hangs up before Gilbert finishes.

"What does he want with you?" Sadik asks as Vladimir walks to his room.

"I don't know. He's trying to be funny."

Sadik makes a mumbled comment about phone bills not being funny and Vladimir returns to his room, waving his stepfather off. He climbs back into bed, pulling the skateboard up onto his lap. He bought the skateboard a while ago at the Obor market and learned through months of hard falls and scraped knees that he did not have the coordination to skateboard. However, he couldn't bring himself to get rid of it, so he's been using it as a lap desk when Aurel is building action figure warzones on their desk.

Vladimir takes a piece of paper from the pile he cut this morning and starts folding it. It turns into a vague frog shape and he flips it over, picks up a pen, and writes 77 on its underside before discarding it on the floor. As his picks up the next sheet of paper, the edge cuts through his fingertip. He winces and holds his finger up to the light. A single, perfect, round drop of blood pools out of the cut.

"What are you doing?" Sadik says as he comes into the room. "I cleaned your room yesterday."

"I'm making frogs," Vladimir says, wiping his blood on the blanket before starting another frog. He writes 78 on its stomach and drops it with the other 77 gathering in a pile around his bed.

"I see that. Why are you making frogs?"

"Eliot told me a while ago that there's this thing in Japan where if you make a thousand cranes, you get eternal happiness or a wish or something like that. I don't know how to make a crane, so I'm going with a frog." Vladimir holds up frog 79 for Sadik. He takes it from Vladimir's palm, examining Vladimir's craftmanship.

"You make a good frog," Sadik says, returning the frog to Vladimir. "What are you wishing for?"

"I don't know. I'll figure it out. I think I'm trying to keep myself busy."

"This is good for you and all, but I don't want a thousand frogs in here. Find somewhere better to put them than the floor." Sadik gives Vladimir the glass of water in his hand and a small white pill. Vladimir sets them on the end of the skateboard and starts working on frog 80.

"Vladimir, don't –"

"No. I feel horrible. That's only going to make me feel worse. I'll take it when I get to 150."

Sadik sighs and crosses his arms. This is often enough to make Aurel do whatever he says. Vladimir is bolder, more resilient, and has a low fever. He's in no mood to do what Sadik tells him, and he is not taking the pill.

"Mental illnesses are serious, Vladimir," Sadik says.

There is a new label affixed to Vladimir's sleeve: _manic depressive disorder_. It was pinned to him this morning by a psychiatrist who wouldn't meet Vladimir's eyes and recommended that Vladimir be sent to an institution. Had it not been for Sadik's determination, Vladimir would have been sent to rot with the rest of Bucharest's mentally ill. He escaped a mental hospital, but at what cost? It couldn't be worse than living with Sadik.

"This isn't a mental illness," Vladimir says. "Stop calling it that."

"Then what is it?" Sadik says.

"Guess," he says. "You're a doctor. You should know."

"I'm not a psychiatrist."

"Pretend you are." Vladimir deposits frog 80 on the floor.

"Fine. You have the symptoms of manic –"

"Wrong," Vladimir says. "Guess again."

"I'm not going to play games with you," Sadik says.

" _Mental illnesses are serious, Vladimir_. Is my manic depression a joke to you?"

"I thought you were trying to tell me you don't have it," Sadik says. "Keep your story straight."

"You're the one who says I'm sick and I need to take this seriously and then you call it a game. You're the one who can't keep their story straight. Keep guessing."

Vladimir can feel Sadik's patience wearing thin. "Why don't you go ahead and say it yourself?" he says. "Whatever I say will be wrong. Tell me what's wrong with you, since you think you know everything."

"There's nothing wrong with me," Vladimir says.

"Most teenagers don't try to kill themselves," Sadik says with zero emotion in his voice. As if it's boring to talk about. As if it means nothing to him.

"I tried because of you."

"You tried because you're mentally ill."

"How do you know?! Are you me? This isn't manic depressive disorder; this is me being so fed up with you forcing me out of my family. This is you being a terrible parent and now you have to face the consequences," Vladimir says. "This is because you couldn't get over Mom's death, so you took it out on me."

Sadik doesn't take any time to process what Vladimir said before replying. "I'm glad to see you haven't changed, Vladimir."

Vladimir crumples up frog 81 and throws it toward the trash bin. It bounces off and lands with a small collection of other crippled frogs. "What would you have done if I died?" he says.

"That's a horrible question."

"What would you do?"

"I don't want to talk about you dying."

"Would you tell Aurel?" Vladimir says. "Or would you say I ran away and never came home?"

"I would tell him," Sadik says. "He's old enough."

"Did you tell him that I tried?"

"Not yet," Sadik says. "I don't want to scare him after what he's been through. He was so afraid of dying that I didn't want him to think about losing you. He talks about death a lot, too. I don't want to encourage that."

"I said I wanted to die and you let me leave. Why didn't you discourage that?" Vladimir asks.

"You say a lot of things you don't mean. I thought this was a thing you had to go through. You've run away before and come home fine. I'm sorry, Vladimir. I'm sorry I failed as a parent."

"So you're not sorry for hitting me?"

"That's not what I – you twist every word that comes out of my mouth. I make a lot of mistakes. I see that. Sometimes you need to be hit, though. You're so stubborn I can't get it through to you any other way. I'm not hurting you half as much as my parents hurt me."

"I'm sorry your parents sucked," Vladimir says as he folds a crease to make frog 84's front legs. "You could be better than them."

"I'm trying, Vladimir. I am trying my absolute best," Sadik says. "I have one child who nearly died and another who won't stop fighting with me. It's a lot for me to deal with by myself. I would like for you to be okay again."

"I am not going to be okay for a long time."

Sadik does not say anything for a long time. When he does speak, he goes straight for the kill. "Vladimir…the doctor told me about the ghost."

Vladimir, in a moment of complete stupidity, thought he should tell the psychiatrist about Kosta. He pretended to believe him but said that Kosta could not be a ghost because ghosts are not real and Kosta must be his angel. Vladimir tried to explain that Kosta did not have wings or a halo and gave off more of a potentially demonic vibe. The doctor dropped the subject and asked when Vladimir started having suicidal feelings. Vladimir asked him why angels are real and ghosts aren't, and the doctor left to go get Sadik.

He didn't think about explaining Kosta to Sadik, though. He'd made the mistake of believing it was a bridge he wouldn't need to cross.

"I'm taking the pill," Vladimir says, and swallows it before Sadik can ask about Kosta.

"Thank you. Try to sleep so you can stay up for the new year," Sadik says. He looks at the pile of frogs before he leaves. "You'll have to find a new place for those," he says more to himself than Vladimir, then he turns off the lights and closes the door.

Vladimir rolls the skateboard off his lap onto the floor, throwing himself back in bed. He can't stand the sedatives the psychiatrist prescribed him. From what he understands, medications should make him feel better. All the sedatives do is manage his "moods", and supposedly put him to sleep. At least the antibiotics he's taking for the infection in his hand are doing their job – his palm doesn't feel like it's on fire anymore and his fever has gone down.

He stares up at the ceiling, waiting for the sedative to kick in.

He closes his eyes.

Vladimir is standing on the dock over the pond at Roderich's summer home. He's talking to Eliot and no words are coming out of his mouth. There's a cup full of something orange in his hand and when he drinks out of it he tastes Fanta and vodka. He tells Eliot how much he hates Fanta. Eliot takes it from him and pours it in the pond.

There is someone approaching them. Vladimir watches their shadow flickering in the light. He feels a strong hand on his back and before he can think he's in the water, sinking toward the bottom.

Vladimir does not know how to swim. He didn't have any reason to learn.

He looks up at the stars and the moon through the water. They ripple and blur and he can only think about how beautiful they are from here. He smiles as water creeps into his lungs. It's warm and earthy and he accepts it. Soon there will be hands grabbing his clothes, arms pulling him to the surface. He's had this dream many times before.

No one comes for him. He gasps and water floods into his mouth. It tastes like Fanta and he chokes as he tries to cry out for help. He kicks his legs and he does not move. Moss wraps around his wrist and pulls him deeper into the depths of the pond. The moss curls around his body and he stops trying to break free. There is nothing he can except look up at the stars.

He watches until every star is gone.

"Hey, Vladimir?"

Vladimir opens his eyes and rolls over to see Eliot sitting in his window. "Oh, hey," he says before shutting his eyes and pulling up the blankets around himself. This is a new part of the dream, and he doesn't want to know what nightmarish monster Eliot will turn into.

"Are you feeling okay?"

"Am I…?" Vladimir jolts upright in bed. Eliot is still sitting in his window, wearing an oversized jacket and a confused expression. "Oh, God. You're real."

"I hope so," Eliot says with a small laugh.

"This isn't a dream. Okay," Vladimir says. His face is burning with embarrassment. "I am so sorry. The doctor I went to see put me on some sedative and it's stronger than I thought it would be," he says as he gets up, stepping on at least forty origami frogs. "What are you doing here?" Vladimir attempts to be at least a little composed – Eliot still looks at him like he's hallucinating.

"It's New Year's Eve," Eliot says.

"Yeah. It is."

"I thought you might like some company. I didn't know you were asleep. Sorry, I'll go home –"

"You can stay," Vladimir says. "Wait here while I go tell Sadik."

Vladimir goes to the kitchen and finds Sadik chopping vegetables. His stepfather glances up at him.

"Is it okay if Eliot spends the night?"

"No."

"Please?"

"Vladimir, you need to rest." Sadik scrapes the vegetables off the cutting board and into a big pan on the stove. "But I'm sure he's already in your room."

"What?" Vladimir says with a laugh. "No, of course not."

"I heard the window open."

"Well, maybe he's in there."

Sadik sighs. "Fine. He can spend the night. Don't be loud, please. I have to work in the morning. And tell him not to be afraid of using the door."

Vladimir returns to his room as Eliot turns on the desk light and starts picking up the origami frogs on the floor. He works in silence for a minute or two, cleaning and rearranging everything Vladimir's room. He does this whenever he comes over. Vladimir gave up on asking him to stop. It seems to make him happy and it's not hurting Vladimir, either.

"Sadik says you can stay," Vladimir says. "He also says to stop using the window as a door."

"Right, sorry. How are you doing?" Eliot says.

Vladimir climbs into his bed, watching Eliot rearrange his room. "Better. Gilbert keeps calling me every two hours, though."

"Gilbert?" Eliot screws his face up as he places the origami frogs on Vladimir's side of the desk. "What does he want?"

"He's worried about me," Vladimir says. "In a Gilbert sort of way."

"Doubt it."

"He's probably scared I'll die and he won't have another gypsy to beat up on. Hey, do you remember when I almost drowned last summer?" Vladimir says as Eliot sits down on the edge of the bed.

"And I saved you?"

"I had a dream about it. Except you didn't save me this time."

"I'm sorry," Eliot says.

"Don't be. You actually saved me."

"I thought you would know how to swim." Eliot looks down at his feet. "Erzsi thought so, too. How do you not know how to swim?"

"No one ever taught me, and there isn't anywhere to swim here."

"Right. I forgot communists don't have fun."

"It was so pretty under the water." Vladimir rests his chin on his knees, watching Eliot pulls at loose strings in the blankets. They haven't spoken since Vladimir left him on the landing. Erzsébet got it right; Vladimir is such an asshole.

"I'm sorry," Vladimir says.

Eliot looks up at him, startled. "It's okay. You don't need to apologize to me."

"I don't know why you're still friends with me," Vladimir says. "I'm a jerk to you and Erzsébet. I mean, I tried to kill myself and didn't tell either of you about it."

"That's okay. Do you want to talk about it?"

Vladimir shrugs. "There isn't a whole lot to tell you. I got fed up with everything and tried to kill myself because I'm so dumb I thought that would be a good solution. Look at me now, I have manic depressive disorder and stitches in my hand."

"I wish you would've talked to me first," Eliot says. "I didn't know anything. I didn't even say goodbye."

"I didn't want to scare you."

"You wouldn't scare me, Vladimir. Nothing you could tell me would scare me."

"I was scared that you would've made me stop."

Eliot isn't fully here. His mind is somewhere else. "Is that such a bad thing?"

Vladimir isn't sure what sort of thing it is. It is a thing, and he recognizes that he doesn't like it and at the same time it makes him feel warm inside. "No," he says. "But I needed to do this. And hey, I'm okay now."

"You didn't think I was real a minute ago," Eliot says. "You're taking medicine they give to insane people to make them, like, not kill people. You literally tried to kill yourself and you think everything is okay now?"

"I'm fine. I stopped myself," Vladimir says in what he thought was a reassuring tone. It comes out cold.

"Who stopped you?" Eliot asks.

"Me."

"No. You didn't. I know you better than you think I do. When you've made up your mind, you're not going to change. Someone had to stop you. Was it Gilbert?"

"Do you really want to know?" Vladimir says. "You're going to think I'm lying."

"I want to understand. I want to be there for you."

"It was a ghost."

Eliot looks at him, waiting for him to elaborate. Vladimir doesn't speak. He feels like he's sinking into the pond again, drowning as he gazes up at the stars. He wants Eliot to grab him and pull him back up to the surface.

"A ghost, huh?" Eliot falls back on the bed, a grin tugging at his lips. "Fuck, man. I would've missed you."


	9. The Photograph

_chapter nine / the photograph / jan. 1, 1990_

"Happy New Year, El."

Eliot sits at the foot of Vladimir's bed, wrapped in a blue blanket and propped up against the footboard. The clock on the dresser behind him reads 12:02, the red numbers making a soft halo on his hair. Vladimir nudges him a few times with his foot. He mutters and pulls the blanket closer. Vladimir kicks him and he jolts awake.

"What?" he says, pushing Vladimir's foot away from him. "I'm asleep."

"It's 1990," Vladimir says.

"Cool."

They fall into silence. Vladimir can't decide if Eliot is mad at him and considers apologizing for waking him up. Then he worries that Eliot is already asleep and by apologizing he'll wake him up again and he'll have to start this whole process over. So he remains quiet and hopes he's not offending Eliot.

Rain taps on the window. The clock in the hallway ticks the seconds away. A muffled song plays in the distance and he hears voices laughing and singing along. He recognizes Erzsébet's voice rising above the others. A car drives by, its engine making an unhealthy whine. The TV in the living room plays "Deșteaptă-te române". In the middle of the song, the TV is turned off. Footsteps come up the hallway and a door shuts.

Vladimir didn't think 1990 would start like this.

The '90's have always felt faraway and unattainable, not quite a real decade. Some part of him expected the '80's would continue indefinitely. Maybe the rest of the world would move on into the new decade. But Romania would always be stuck in the '80's, forever strangled by Ceausescu. Now Ceausescu is dead and buried, their government is non-existent, and it is January 1, 1990. Aurel is in the hospital. Sadik is trying to fix what happened. Vladimir's run away, tried to kill himself, and met a ghost.

His life sounds like a bad joke.

"Vladimir?" Eliot says, tapping Vladimir's ankle.

"I thought you didn't want to talk."

"I need to ask you something."

There is a long pause.

"El?" Vladimir says. "Are you going to ask me?"

"Does it bother you that I'm gay?"

Eliot came out to Vladimir on a hot summer night in 1988. They had gone with Roderich and Erzsébet to Roderich's summer home for a party. Eliot had disappeared hours before, leaving Vladimir sitting alone on the stairs. He went out to the garden to get away from everyone and found Eliot sitting beneath a magnolia tree. Vladimir sat down next to him and meant to make a few jokes about Eliot abandoning him before forcing him back inside. Then he saw the tear Eliot wiped away and the blood dripping from the end of his nose.

He'd been led on, Eliot said. He told Vladimir he'd been talking to someone for weeks now, and tonight they'd brought him out into the garden and kissed him, then punched him in the face and called him a fucking creep. Vladimir rolled up his sleeves and asked who it was – he wasn't above hitting a girl, he'd said with a laugh.

Eliot wiped his nose on his sleeve. "…What if it wasn't a girl?"

No one except for Vladimir, the unknown boy, and Eliot know the truth.

"No," Vladimir says. "Why do you want my opinion, anyway?"

"Because you're always right."

"I tried to kill myself."

Eliot sucks air in through his teeth. "You're right most of the time. I don't know, man, I hate that you know. Not because I don't trust you," he says, "but because I don't want you to think different of me. I don't want you to think of me as gay."

"I think you worry about the stupidest shit in the world," Vladimir says.

"Yeah. I do." Eliot holds his head in his hands. In the dim light from the window, Vladimir sees Eliot's shoulders shaking – is he crying? "Do you want to know who it was?"

"I thought you said I didn't know them."

"Oh, no, I did. It was Gilbert," Eliot says with a laugh. "I got led on by Gilbert Beilschmidt."

"No way," Vladimir says.

He is never going to lose a fight to Gilbert again.

"I'm dead serious. He'd been talking to me for a few weeks before it, kind of leading on that he was questioning his sexuality but not saying it. And I know he was a real dick to you, but he was so… _understanding_ ," Eliot says. "I thought I'd like, found someone. The only gay person in Bucharest. And then he punched me in the face."

"Why didn't you tell me then?" Vladimir says. "I would've beat the shit out of him."

"That's exactly why I didn't say anything. I didn't want you to out him, because he'd for sure out me. So don't ever say anything about this to him," Eliot says. "I'm serious. Everyone here already fucking thinks I'm gay."

"I'd never do that," Vladimir says.

"Thanks. You're the only person I feel like I can trust."

Vladimir kicks him softly. "You're pretty okay yourself, El."

Vladimir falls asleep soon after, too tired to dwell on the fact that Gilbert Beilschmidt might be a little gay. When he wakes up, Eliot is gone from the foot of his bed, the blue blanket folded neatly in his place. The clock reads 10:29. The window is open a sliver, letting a frigid wind drift into the room and flutter the curtains. It's still raining. As he sits upright, he notices a note taped on the window.

The trek to the window is cold and miserable, even with a blanket wrapped around Vladimir's shoulders. He pulls the note from the glass, waiting for his eyes to adjust.

 _Fuck Sadik, I'm going to keep using the window. Eliot, 8:43 a.m._

Vladimir sits down on the edge of his bed, rereading the note over and over. He folds it up into a neat triangle, creasing the paper against his leg. It's such an Eliot thing to sign a note with the time.

Sadik knocks on the door and Vladimir scrambles to shove the note under the covers.

"Hey," Vladimir says. It sounds far more suspicious than he thought it would.

"I haven't seen you since last year," Sadik says.

"You're not funny."

"I wasn't trying to be." Sadik is an expert at recovering from anything Vladimir says. At this point, Vladimir insults him out of curiosity. "Did your friend leave?" he asks, looking around the room. He stops when he sees the open window, his eyebrows knitting together.

"He said he didn't want to wake you up," Vladimir says.

"Tell him to use the door or else."

"Or else what?"

"You know," Sadik says. He comes over to Vladimir and presses his cold hand over Vladimir's forehead. "You don't feel hot anymore."

"Because your hands are freezing," Vladimir says. "Or else what? Are you going to kick him out?'

Sadik rakes his fingers through Vladimir's hair, examining the ghost of his black eye from Gilbert and the bruise on the side of his face from his fist. "It was just to intimidate you, Vladimir. I'm not going to do anything. You've got your color back, too. How do you feel?"

"Bad."

"Bad enough to stay home alone?"

"I'll be okay if you go to work," Vladimir says.

"Promise me you'll take your meds on time."

"I'll think about it."

Sadik pinches the bridge of his nose. "It's for your own good, Vladimir."

It's not for his own good. It's to keep him well-behaved. He can't fight back if he's sedated.

"It's not so bad outside today," Sadik says as he leaves the room. "Maybe you should get out and take a little walk. Go see your friends or something."

"Maybe."

"I'll be home around six, okay? I'm bringing home a surprise tonight."

"A surprise?"

"Yes. Try to clean yourself up a bit before I come home."

He hears the front door open and shut, then the lock clicks. Vladimir sits up in bed, wondering what sort of surprise Sadik could be bringing –

 _Aurel._

Sadik said Aurel should be coming home any day now yesterday. He was gone for a few hours yesterday afternoon and never mentioned to Vladimir where he'd gone. Why else would he ask Vladimir to clean himself up if he weren't bringing Aurel home?

Vladimir smiles at the thought of sharing a room with Aurel again. He's missed someone irritating him and making a mess. He can't wait to hear Aurel laugh and call him rude names. He even wants to listen to Aurel rant about Transformers. He'll have to tell him about Kosta, too. Aurel loves ghosts – he's wasted rolls and rolls of film trying to take pictures of ghosts in the cemetery a few blocks away.

An idea blooms in Vladimir's mind. It's just weird enough to work.

Kosta can form a reflection, and cameras are made of mirrors, so he should show up on film. Although Vladimir doesn't have a camera (Aurel dropped the camera during his last ghost hunt when he saw a "ghost" that turned out to be a newspaper caught in a tree) he remembers Eliot saying his mother sent him a Polaroid camera for Christmas. Giurgiu is only two hours away; if he leaves now, he could be back with a picture of a ghost before Sadik and Aurel come home.

And while a ghost picture won't make up for Aurel stabbing himself in the leg with a fork, Vladimir knows it will be better than any apology he can come up with.

As he goes to leave, he can't ignore the two pill bottles sitting on the kitchen counter with a glass of water. He wants to walk past it; however, he knows Sadik has counted out the pills. Vladimir groans and trudges over to the sink, shoving an antibiotic in his mouth. He takes out one of the mood stabilizers, turning it over in his hand. Maybe it is better if he takes them. Maybe medication will make him the good person Sadik always wanted him to be. Maybe he'll stop being such a jerk to everyone he knows.

Vladimir throws the pill down the sink.

Fuck being a good person.

He scribbles an illegible note and leaves it on the counter in case he's not home in time and leaves to capture a ghost.

Eliot comes to the door seconds after Vladimir knocks. "What do you want?" he asks.

"I need to borrow your camera."

"Weird." Eliot steps aside, letting Vladimir inside. Vladimir toes off his shoes and waves to Eliot's aunt in the living room. "What are you going to do with it?" Eliot asks as he opens the door to his room.

Can he tell Eliot the truth?

"Photography," Vladimir says. It isn't a lie.

"I'm serious, Vladimir." Eliot returns with the yellow Polaroid, protecting it from Vladimir's reach with his arm. "I'm not going to let you borrow it if you're going to do something weird."

"You'll laugh," Vladimir says. "Trust me, okay? No harm will come to your camera."

"I'm not letting you have it until you tell me."

"Why do you have to be so difficult?" Vladimir makes a lunge for the camera and Eliot holds it above his head, just out of Vladimir's grasp. Why can't Eliot be a few centimeters shorter?

"You're not making this easier," Eliot says. "Why are you wearing a jacket? Are you going somewhere?"

"No."

"Are you running away again?"

"No."

"Then what are you doing? Does Sadik know you're here?"

Vladimir comes into Eliot's room, closing the door behind him. Eliot's room seems much larger than Vladimir's, since he has it to himself and keeps it clean, almost to the point of obsessiveness. The wall above his bed is full of photos from his childhood, of foreign countries and summer days and Christmases. He does not have any photos of Romania pinned up. The other walls are covered in posters and a few drawings Eliot has done, mostly landscapes of mountains and birch trees. Posters for his father's movies and prints of his mother's photographs hang on the wall next to a shelf full of souvenirs and a plant in a cracked white pot. Vladimir always feels guilty in Eliot's room. He shouldn't be seeing these pieces of Eliot's life.

"Well?" Eliot says.

Vladimir gathers all of his courage (which isn't much). "I'm going to go take a picture of the ghost in Giurgiu," he says. "It doesn't matter why."

Eliot laughs. His laughter dies out when he sees Vladimir is not laughing, too. "You were serious about the ghost?" he says.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"I thought you were fucking with me. I'm not giving you my camera so you can go waste film."

"It's not for me," Vladimir says. "Please, Eliot. I promise I'll be super careful with it."

"Who is it for?"

Vladimir looks at one of the multicolored movie posters instead of meeting Eliot's eyes. How did he think this was going to play out? "It's for Aurel because he loves ghosts and he's coming home and I want to give him something to apologize for being the world's worst older brother and I don't own a camera and you do and it would be really nice if you would let me have it so I can go!" he says this all in one breath, the words slurring together so much he can't tell if Eliot even understands what he's saying. Vladimir doesn't understand what he's saying. His thoughts are a mess of worry and fear and dread. His heart is muddled.

Eliot lowers the camera. You're running away from Aurel?" he says. "Christ, Vladimir. That's fucked."

"I'm not running away," Vladimir says. "I'm bringing him a picture of the ghost."

"No. You're not getting out of this with some bullshit ghost story," Eliot says. "You can't run away from Aurel. You can't run away from anything to begin with. Everything's going to catch up to you."

"You can come with me if you want. I'll show you the ghost. He's friendly. I think. We didn't talk much about his morality."

"Shut up about the ghost. I don't care if it's real or not or whatever you believe. You are literally running away from your paralyzed brother and you won't admit it."

"Please. It's important to me and Aurel."

"No."

Vladimir hasn't seen Eliot be this firm about anything, ever. His is always the first to give in. He's the biggest doormat. Why is he being so bold now? Why does he have to make Vladimir face the problem he's created head on? Can't he let Vladimir work things out by himself?

(Why does he always have to be a voice of reason?)

"I'm sorry," Eliot says. "I can't help you mess up your relationship with your brother."

"I'm sorry, too." Vladimir turns and opens the door, stepping out into the hallway. His heart races. Is he really this committed to avoiding the inevitable? Is risking his friendship with Eliot worth this?

"Why are you apologizing?"

In one swift move, Vladimir snatches the camera from Eliot's hand and runs.

He doesn't bother to put on his shoes – he picks them up, throws open the door and keeps running. Behind him he hears Eliot shout at his aunt that nothing's wrong. Vladimir jumps down the steps five at a time. He does not look back until he is out on the street, sprinting toward the bus station. Eliot is keeping a steady pace, only a dozen steps behind him.

The bus station is within sight and there is a sharp stitch in Vladimir's side. He is beginning to realize this falls on his list of the worst things he's done, second only to allowing Aurel to be shot.

The attendant in the ticket booth does not question why Vladimir is gasping for breath and not wearing shoes. She doesn't get paid enough to ask if he's okay. He buys two tickets and is stuffing the change in his pocket when Eliot bursts into the bus station. The attendant hands him the tickets and Vladimir runs off toward the bus lot, slipping several times on the tile floor. He hits the ground, hard, and hears the clatter of plastic. He can't stop to look if something broke. He's too deep in this already.

When he reaches the bus, he shows the driver the two tickets and heads straight to the back. Eliot gets on moments later, cornering Vladimir in the last row of seats.

"What is wrong with you?" he snaps, pulling the camera from Vladimir's hands. There is sweat rolling down his forehead and his face is red. Neither of them speak for a while as they struggle to breathe. Eliot sits down on the edge of the seat, resting his head against the seat in front of them.

"Nothing's wrong," Vladimir says, attempting to put his thoughts together in a coherent sentence and coming up with nothing better than pieces. "You don't understand. He's paralyzed. Aurel can't walk and I did that to him."

"I do understand. You're a coward and a piece of shit brother."

"Aurel can't walk because of me. I ruined his entire life."

"And you think a picture of a ghost will help?!"

"People are staring," Vladimir says in a low voice. Several people turn around, while others keep watching, waiting for the first punch to be thrown. "We can talk this through on the way there, okay?"

Eliot restrains himself from screaming by biting his lip. His hand is clenched so tight around the camera strap that it begins to shake. "You're fucking insane. You are mental if you think this will fix things. I'm not going along with you –"

The bus lurches forward and Eliot is thrown out into the aisle. Vladimir catches him and Eliot punches him in the stomach so hard he can't breathe for a few seconds after. Eliot has never hit Vladimir. Not even as a joke.

It hurts a thousand times worse than it should.

Eliot stands up, moving to the seat opposite Vladimir. "Here," he says, throwing the shoes in his hand at Vladimir's head. Both miss and hit the window with a loud _thunk_. "You grabbed my shoes."

"Oh." Vladimir looks down at the black and white Adidas. "I guess I did. Sorry." He gives the shoes to Eliot and Eliot tears them away.

"Where are we going?" Eliot says as he pulls his shoes on.

"Giurgiu."

"Great. I was supposed to call my mom today." Eliot puts on his jacket and zips it all the way up to his neck. He's blinking back tears. "Happy fucking New Year, you psychopath."

* * *

 _"Welcome to the Hotel California, such a lovely place, such a lovely face. Plenty of room at the Hotel –"_

"So, uh, how do you two know each other?" Toris asks as he turns down the radio, glancing in the rear-view mirror at Eliot.

"He stole my camera," Eliot says, kicking Vladimir's seat.

Toris flinches, yet lets Eliot continue kicking the seat. "He did what?"

Vladimir shrugs. "It was mutual," he says.

"You can't mutually steal," Toris says.

"See, Vladimir," Eliot says, "mutual mean both people are okay with what's happening. Mutual does not mean stealing a camera and forcing someone to go on a cross-country trip to take a picture of a ghost instead of seeing your brother who's been hospitalized for three weeks!"

"This is about the ghost?" Toris says. "And you have brother?"

"No and yes, I have a half-brother. Eliot, your Romanian is getting so much better." Vladimir turns up the radio loud enough so Eliot can't hear him. "He's an exchange student from France," Vladimir says to Toris. "He's only been here since September and he's not great at speaking Romanian, so don't mind anything he says."

"I've lived here since I was twelve and I'm fucking Luxembourgish!" Eliot reaches between the seats and turns the radio off. "Tell him the truth, Vladimir."

"He has brain damage," Vladimir says. It's a last resort, and not a good one.

Eliot throws his elbow into Vladimir's shoulder. "You're the one who's fucked up. If anyone has brain damage here, it's the person who's going to take a picture of a ghost."

"Okay," Toris says with an awkward, forced smile, holding his hands out to keep the two of them apart. "I'm sensing a lot of hostility here. Could just be me. Do you two want to work this out before I start driving?"

Vladimir looks out the window at the gas station parking lot. There are lots of poles and chunks of asphalt for Eliot to smash Vladimir's skull on. After being punched by him, Vladimir does not doubt that Eliot would like to do more damage.

"I think we're fine," he says. "Right, El?"

Eliot falls back in his seat, giving Vladimir's seat another strong kick that almost launches him through the windshield. "I'm good," he says. "Let's get this over with. Go take your picture of your stupid ghost that is so important you felt the need to ruin everything over it. I'm sure my mom can wait. It's not like I haven't talked to her in a year or anything."

"Are you sure you don't want to work this out?" Toris says.

"Let's go," Vladimir says. He's starting to feel horrible for roping Toris into this and wishes he would've stopped when he was ahead. If only he knew when he was ahead.

Toris looks from Vladimir to Eliot. He shifts the car into reverse and hesitates for a moment before driving off. When they are on the highway, he turns on the radio and lets the Eagles fill the angry void between Vladimir and Eliot. Several times he starts to speak and stops himself.

"You wanted to go to the church, right?" Toris says.

"Yeah."

Toris turns onto the road by Feliks's home. A chill runs down Vladimir's spine. He pulls on his jacket and tells himself ghosts can't hurt him. They can only possess him. Which Vladimir didn't know ghosts could do. He thought that was exclusive to demons.

The car turns down the gravel road. Eliot stops kicking his seat and moves to be in between the seats, looking out the windshield as the church appears out of the dead sunflowers. When Toris comes to a stop in the lot in front of the church, Vladimir unbuckles his seatbelt but does not move.

"This is the place?" Toris asks.

Vladimir nods.

"Are you going to take the picture or not?" Eliot says.

"I'm having second thoughts," Vladimir says. He forgot how imposing the church was up close. Even during the day, it looks like it came straight from a horror movie. And there may or may not be a ghost inside.

"No, you're not doing this to me." Eliot gets out of the car, pulls Vladimir's door open, and drags him up to the church. "Here." He sets the camera in Vladimir's hands. "Take the picture. You're not going to bring me all the way out here to chicken out."

"I'm sorry," Vladimir says, looping the camera strap around his neck. "I didn't know your mom was calling today."

"You don't think of anyone but yourself. You're fucking selfish. Aurel is coming home and my mother was supposed to call me and I'm here with you, taking a picture of a ghost because you think you saw one when you were clearly not right in the head. I am so mad at you I can't even put it into words. One sorry isn't going to fix this." Eliot turns on his heels and returns to the safety of the car.

Vladimir stands on the steps, running his thumb over the smooth plastic of the camera. He asks himself what he's doing. He does not have the answer.

"I can do this," Vladimir says to himself as he pushes open the front door. It slides open with ease.

(Wasn't it locked last time?)

Vladimir takes a step inside. It looks the same as when he left it, if not slightly cleaner. He wanders around the foyer for a while, rustling through water damaged books and pulling at the peeling paint. Someone has been cleaning since he left – the ripped pages are stacked in neat piles on the floor and the windows have been scrubbed clean of their thick layer of grime. If Kosta is stuck here forever, he probably doesn't have much better to do than to clean.

"Hello?" Vladimir calls out. "Konstantin? I came back."

He is met with a dusty, muffled silence. He does not feel a presence or a spirit or anything other than if he stayed in this vaguely moldy church too long, he'd get sick. There are no voices in his head, no beings possessing him. A dreadful realization sweeps through him: Eliot is right. There never was a ghost.

There was only Vladimir.

He got scared and passed out (he's passed out from fear once before, when he cut his hand with a kitchen knife down to the bone). He dreamt up Kosta. Or he hallucinated him. He isn't sure what the side effects of opioids are, but he doesn't doubt they could cause hallucinations (he could have hallucinated from his newfound manic depression, but it's about as real as ghosts). He was such a mess that he let himself believe there was a –

The lights flicker on overhead. The two candles next to the altar light up, their flames growing from nothing. Every beam in the church creaks and the nails in the floorboards rattle.

"Konstantin?" he says. His voice echoes. The temperature drops several degrees. "Konstantin, please don't hurt me! I'm sorry if I hurt you. I was scared and –"

The camera is pulled forward, toward the altar, with such a force that Vladimir has no choice but to follow it or be dragged down. When he reaches the steps up to the altar, the camera lowers. Vladimir screws his eyes shut and waits for the unknown.

 _This is how I die. Shit, Eliot and Toris will come after me and he's going to kill them too and then everyone is going to be mad at me. I'm such a fucking idiot._

"Do you want to open your eyes now?"

Vladimir opens his eyes. Kosta is standing before him in military uniform. He's transparent. His wounds ooze a black substance that gleams like it is full of stars. His eyes are vacant, more so than before. He seems like he's sick and for a moment Vladimir wants to ask if he is okay before he remembers he is standing before a supernatural being.

"I thought I'd have a little fun with you. I've been working on my dramatic entrance," Kosta says with a stupid grin. He waves his hand and the candles flicker out. "You're looking better, Vladik. Is it okay if I call you that? Vladimir is so clunky."

"You're…You're real?" Vladimir remains frozen in place. His common sense is telling him to bring the camera up, snap a picture, and run. His curiosity is mesmerized. Ghosts should not be real, and yet there is one right here, talking to him. He'd just convinced himself to think he'd made up Kosta and now Kosta is here, proving him wrong.

"I thought we went over this. We can start over, if you'd like." Kosta disappears and appears next to him. He puts his see-through hand above Vladimir's arm and through some unseen force, sits him down on the steps. "Hello, I'm Konstantin. Please call me Kosta. I've been dead for a while now, I 'haunt'" – here he uses air quotes, then looks to Vladimir as if asking if he's used them properly – "Saint Bretannio Catholic Church. I hate the term 'haunt', because I'm not angry or malicious, I'm just here. Now you go."

Vladimir can't say anything.

Kosta, tired of waiting for Vladimir to gather himself, leans over and shakes Vladimir's hand. "Hello, Vladimir. Nice to meet you again. Why do you have a camera?"

"You're real," Vladimir says. "You're real. This isn't a hallucination?"

"Sure hope not." The black liquid dripping from Kosta's wounds begins falling from his nose. He wipes at it with his sleeve and it smears across his face and wrist. "I'm so sorry I'm bleeding like this, this happens every so often. My soul is trying to move on without my spirit and it's quite the complicated process for the living to understand, so I'll spare you the gory details."

"You're real. Like, you're here. In front of me. Not in my head."

"Can we move past me being real?"

Vladimir scrambles to his feet, backing away from Kosta. "Wait. No. I'm not talking to you. I'm not insane. Don't you dare speak," he says before Kosta can open his mouth. "You stay here, and I am going outside. Do not follow me."

"I thought you weren't talking to me."

"That's beside the point - goddamn it, will you shut up! I don't want to talk to you!" Vladimir holds his hand up as if that is going to stop a ghost/demon from ripping his soul out.

Kosta doesn't move, letting Vladimir walk backwards down the aisle. "You're forgetting your photo," he says.

Vladimir raises the camera up, not even bothering to look through the viewfinder. He doesn't care how shitty this photo turns out. Kosta smiles and adjusts his uniform, cleaning the blood from his face with his sleeve. As Vladimir presses the button, the front door of the church is pushed open. The flash lights up Kosta for a moment and then he is gone. Vladimir pulls the photo loose from the camera and shoves it in his pocket seconds before Toris comes inside.

"Vladimir? You good?" Toris says.

"Yeah," Vladimir says with an uncomfortable laugh. "Just looking for ghosts."

"Did you take the photo?"

"No."

Toris comes into the church, walking in a big circle as he looks over the decaying paintings and rotting floorboards. "Wow. It's way creepier in here than I remember. I used to come here all the time with Feliks, but then he got all freaked out about a ghost, too. Could you hurry up and get this photo?" he asks. "Your friend is getting kind of scared, I think."

"Give me, like, a minute."

Toris nods, unable to look away from the derelict beauty of the church. His eyes wander from image to image, lingering for a long time on the cross at the front of the room. "What did you do to him, Vladimir?"

Vladimir falters. He can't tell Toris. He's only known Toris for a few days and he can't make someone else hate him. "I messed up," he says.

"Yeah. I gathered that."

"I didn't mean to."

"No one ever means to mess up," Toris says. "I'll be waiting out in the car."

The door closes without any sound. Vladimir lets the camera hang loose from his neck. He digs his fingers into his arm.

"May I see the photo?" Kosta appears next to Vladimir.

Vladimir pulls it out of his pocket and gives it to him.

Kosta holds it up to the light – his hand all but disappears in light, making it look as though the pictures is levitating. "Well, I've looked better. So there's others here." He jerks his head toward the door. "There's two, right?"

"Don't do anything to them," Vladimir says. Kosta and the photo flutters to the ground. Vladimir picks it up and shoves it in his pocket. "They don't want any part of this," he says, spinning around as he tries to find the ghost. "They don't believe in ghosts –"

Kosta appears by the window, his nose almost touching the glass. He waves at them. "They seem nice. What are their names?"

"Leave them alone," Vladimir says. "Or I'll –"

"Do what?" Kosta asks as he rolls his eyes. He steps away from the window, smears more of the blood across his face, and licks his fingers. "You're human, Vladimir Cosmescu. You can't do anything to me."

"I'll get a priest. A real one! And he'll exorcise you or whatever it is that priests do."

"First, I'm living in a church. If the power of Christ was going to hurt me, I would be long dead by now. Second, please don't. The last thing I want in this place is Catholics. Third, I don't want to hurt your friends or you, so calm down. One of them can't even see me."

"How do you know?"

Kosta walks back to Vladimir, his footsteps making no sounds. He does everything at a leisurely pace, as if he has all the time in the world to spare. In a way, he does. "The one in the back panicked when I came to the window. The one who came in earlier didn't notice me, even when I was standing right behind you."

"Eliot can see you?" Vladimir says.

"Eliot? Is that French? How exotic. I hate the French."

"He's Luxembourgish."

"Luxembourgish," Kosta repeats, letting the word roll off his tongue. "So, what brings you and Eliot and that other one here? It can't possibly be boring old me. Please don't tell me you just wanted a photo."

"What else would I come here for?"

Kosta's smile falls. He walks away, toward the back of the church. The same force that pulled Vladimir along earlier is now shoving him toward the door. "Get out. You've made a mistake if you think I will allow you to use me for your enjoyment."

Vladimir digs his heels into the floor, pushing back as hard as he can. The front door begins to swing open and light spills into the room. The force grows stronger and Vladimir is tripping over his feet, somehow not falling, unable to even attempt to push back. He is steps from the door.

And then it stops. The force vanishes.

He falls flat onto his face.

"Kosta?" Vladimir calls as he rolls onto his back. The ghost is no longer standing there. Vladimir's ears are ringing and he can't hear anything or feel his fingertips. His legs shake as he pulls himself to his feet. The ringing clears away and he begins to hear a distant coughing.

The coughing stops and starts again. It's painful sounding and ragged, like a final breath. He hears something wet hit the floor.

(Vladimir looks toward the door. He can escape now, run to Toris and Eliot, and go home to never think about this again.)

Vladimir goes to the back of the church; as he steps into the room where he woke up, he finds Kosta on his knees, blood pouring from his mouth. The liquid is thick like tar. It runs down his arms and through his fingers. It drips from the end of his nose. It stains his uniform. Stars and moons and galaxies swirl in the blood; strands of gold and silver tangle with each other. Tears fall from Kosta's eyes and make pools of light in the blood. His hands tremble as he attempts to stand.

"Don't get up," Vladimir says, rushing over to him. Kosta sinks down again, holding his head. "Are you hurt? Should I do something?"

"This is fine," Kosta says.

"Are you dying?"

"Not yet. This only started happening a few years ago. I think I've been forgotten, and my soul is ready to move on. I – the spirit - am not. Ghosts are an elaborate collection of memories and emotions, but all of us are held together by our souls." He stares into the depths of his blood. "This is awfully disgusting. I'm sorry. It would be so much prettier if it wasn't coming from my mouth," he says. "Oh! You don't know what this is. Vladimir, meet my soul."

Vladimir points to the cosmic blood. "That's a soul?"

"In more of a liquid state. They tend to have a shape. Mine was of a rose petal. I've lost so much of my soul over the years, and mine was never any good to begin with. Lots of souls are more beautiful than mine. Yours is gorgeous."

"You've seen it?" Vladimir says.

"Yes. I had to, when I possessed you."

"Oh."

"Vladimir, is everything alright?"

Vladimir glances up at Kosta. He can almost pretend he's a living person, if he doesn't look at the soul fluid spilling out of him and the wounds moving over his skin. Maybe he should talk about everything with someone, and who keeps secrets better than the dead?

"My brother got shot," he says.

"I know," Kosta says. "How is he?"

"He's coming home tonight, and I think I'm avoiding it," Vladimir says. "I'm afraid of him. He's the same person, obviously, but…"

Kosta reaches over and takes Vladimir's hand. Traces of his soul touch Vladimir's skin. It's lukewarm and milkier than it looks. A star touches his skin and it feels like a pinprick. "I know what you want to say. Something won't feel right about it. Change is difficult for both the living and the dead. However, I promise you that this is a good change. He has returned alive."

"Can't you let me be afraid?" Vladimir says. "Everyone is trying to convince me to be strong and be brave for him. You're not even real and you're saying it."

"It's always okay to be afraid. Sometimes you must step around it for the sake of others."

"Easy for you to say. You're dead."

Kosta kind of laughs. "I suppose."

They sit together on the floor for an eternity, surrounded by the remains of Kosta's soul. It begins to seep into the floorboards and fade to a deep blue. Kosta places both hands around Vladimir's, his fingers dipping in and out of Vladimir. Vladimir wants to believe him. He wants to think everything will be fine. And a part of him does. Some part of him knows that Aurel will come home and it will be strange for a while, like the weeks after their mother died. Then things will be okay. The change will become normal and he will forget it happened.

The other, more sensible part of him recognizes that he's sitting next to a ghost.

"I have to go," Vladimir says.

"Of course." Kosta holds Vladimir into a strange, not-quite touching hug. "Thank you for coming back. It means the world to me, even though you came to exploit my death. But I can see you mean well. I hope it isn't too much for me to ask for you to come visit again."

"I might."

"And promise me you'll take care of your brother."

"I'll try."

"You want to know something, Vladik?"

"What?"

"Your soul is pink. Like the sky right after the sun sets," Kosta says. "You've got a good one. Keep it that way."

Kosta is gone before Vladimir can say anything. His soul disappears, too. Vladimir pulls himself to his feet, his chest filled with a warmth he hasn't felt in a long time.

The rain is beating down on the earth. Vladimir hides the camera in his jacket, running over to the car. He throws open the door and climbs into the passenger seat, slamming the door behind him. Toris and Eliot stare at him. Vladimir realizes he's smiling and his face turns red.

Toris is the only one bold enough to break the tension. "So, uh, see any ghosts?"

"Maybe." Vladimir takes the photo from his back pocket, holding it up to the light. Kosta is standing in the middle of the photo with a bright smile. There are no traces of his soul on his face or leaking from his wounds. He looks like he could be alive.

"I don't see anything," Toris says. He takes the photo from Vladimir's fingers and scrutinizes it, holding it up close to his face and then out at arm's length. "Wait. Maybe a hand? No, that's a shadow. I mean, this could be a body," he says, tracing around Kosta's chest. "You see anything?" he asks as he hands it to Eliot.

"No." Eliot shoves the photo into Vladimir's lap. "I don't see anything."

"Don't tell me you see a ghost, Vladimir," Toris says.

Vladimir smiles again. Kosta's grin is infectious. "I don't know. Maybe a hand."


	10. Start Over

_chapter ten / start over / jan. 1, 1990_

Eliot is out of the car before Toris can park. He thanks Toris for driving him home. Toris tries to say it isn't any trouble, but Eliot is already running out into the rain, the camera held tight in his arms. Vladimir watches him go inside. Eliot always waits. He always stands in the doorway until Vladimir reaches the top of the stairs and they go in together, racing each other to the third floor. This is how it was since sixth grade and until a few hours ago, it was how it would be forever.

He does not stop in the doorway.

"Okay. He's pissed," Toris says. "Have fun with that."

"I'm sorry." This must be Vladimir's hundredth apology today.

"It's fine. I don't think he did too much damage to my car," Toris says, leaning back to examine the shoe prints on the passenger seat. He curses under his breath. "Nothing I can't fix, anyway."

"Just say you're mad at me."

"What? I'm not. Do I sound mad to you?" Toris says. "I don't mean to be hostile. I'm fine. Feliks has done much worse to my car."

"How can you not be mad at me? Even _I'm_ mad at me."

Toris shrugs. "I've got better things to be angry about. Don't be too hard on yourself. You're seventeen. Most of us would've done this if we were in the same place as you. Maybe not the whole ghost thing, though. That's kind of weird. But everyone has run away at some point. The good thing is that you're facing it now, right?" He pauses and waits for Vladimir to answer.

Vladimir doesn't say anything. His silence speaks more than any words could.

"…Right?" Toris reaches over and nudges his shoulder. "Come on. I'm sure your brother's been waiting to see you."

"He's my half-brother," Vladimir says. "Different dads."

"Does that change anything between you?"

"No." The raindrops rolling down the window distort the street and capture the light in their round shapes. "His dad, my stepdad, is a fucking prick, though."

"How?"

Vladimir picks at the bandages on his broken fingers. "You know. He's just a stepdad."

"I don't, actually. My parents are married. Wish they weren't, though."

They don't say anything for the longest, most agonizing minute in Vladimir's life. Toris shuts off the car and stuffs the keys in his pocket. He steeples his fingers like a Bond villain. Unsteeples. Steeples again.

The rain slows. Streetlights struggle to turn on, spilling greenish-yellow light over the crumbling sidewalks. Tineretului is a communist-grey wasteland and for the first time, Vladimir is embarrassed of where he lives. There is no color here, no warmth or any sense of home. It's a cold, desolate place. Perfect for Vladimir.

"Well, there's no point in you staying in here and moping," Toris says. "You've got a half-brother to see. And I need to get home before my parents think I got in another car wreck."

"Another?" Vladimir says.

"The first wasn't my fault. Let's go while the rain's stopped." Toris pushes open his door, stepping out into the street.

"Are you coming with me?"

"I'll walk you up," Toris says. "If that's okay with you."

Is there a point where Toris stops putting everyone else's feelings above his?

"You don't have to be so nice," Vladimir says.

"No, I don't. I want to."

There is no sign of Eliot inside. Vladimir lingers for a moment at the third floor, hoping Eliot will come out of 309 and say…What could he say that hasn't already been said? He has no reason to see Vladimir. There is nothing more to say, nothing else to do. Eliot will come around when he's done being mad at Vladimir. They've been through this in the few times they've fought before: Eliot shuts himself off, overthinks to the point he loses the original argument, and comes to Vladimir when he's ready to hear Vladimir's apology.

"I live here," Vladimir says as he stops in front of 409.

Toris looks at the bare door. "It's a…nice door?"

"You don't have to compliment it. It's shit."

Toris smiles his sleepy smile. "You get what I meant. Here. Roll up your sleeve for a second."

"Why?"

"I don't have any paper with me."

Vladimir pushes his sleeve up to his elbow, holding out his bare arm to Toris. Toris takes a purple pen from his pocket and writes on Vladimir's skin, hiding it with his hand like it's answers on a test. Vladimir attempts to figure out what he's writing by the strokes – it's a number, or maybe terrible cursive. "There," he says as he sticks the pen back in his pocket. "Call me next time you want to come to Giurgiu. I'll pick you up, so you don't have to pay for a bus ticket."

"I have money," Vladimir says.

"My parents pay for my gas money and believe me, if I'm not working, I have nothing better to do. I don't think you'll be spending a lot of time with Eliot, either." Toris pulls Vladimir's sleeve down, covering the number. "Hey, show me the photo again. There's better light in here."

Vladimir fishes the Polaroid from his back pocket and hands it over to Toris. Kosta is still there, still grinning. Toris puts his thumb over Kosta's face. "Maybe, maybe that's a body," he says, tapping right where Kosta's heart would be. "I don't know. You said you saw a hand?"

Toris returns the photo to Vladimir. Vladimir considers telling him exactly what he sees – it's not like he would believe him – and decides against it. Toris likes him. It's best to keep it that way.

"Yeah. Right here." Vladimir points to Kosta's left hand, the hand that was covered in soul, the hand that held Vladimir's. "See the fingers?"

"No. Sorry. I want to see them, if that means anything to you. Wish I could be more help," Toris says, adjusting his jacket. "I need to get back. You can do this, Vladimir. Go in there and give your half-brother that photo and try to fix things with Eliot. That needs a lot of work."

"This is a horrible pep talk."

"Thanks. You got this." Toris kind of waves and gives Vladimir's shoulder a pat before turning and going downstairs.

They have known each other for a week. They have been in each other's presence for less than ten hours. And Vladimir feels like they have known each other forever. He even dares to call Toris a friend. Does Toris do the same?

Vladimir watches him disappear, listens to his gentle footsteps echo off the walls. He pushes up his sleeve and looks at the tiny number written in semi-cursive: 711-555-8271. The fives loop around so much they could have been eights in a different life, and the sevens have lines drawn through them like f's. Toris's handwriting is far too perfect for a seventeen-year-old Romanian boy. Did he spend hours working on it or is it natural? It fits him in every way possible and if handwriting could speak, the numbers would ask if it's okay for them to be on his arm and then say something comforting.

 _It's just a phone number, Vladimir. Calm down._

Still, he walks into his apartment carrying the number like it's his little secret, trying to hold on to the warmth of Toris' fingertips. Eliot is gone from his mind. Sadik is gone. Aurel and Kosta and Gilbert are gone. For an instant, the only people that matter are Vladimir and Toris. That is, until Sadik appears from nowhere and takes Vladimir by his shoulders, pinning him up against the wall.

"Vladimir Cosmescu, I am this close to killing you," he says in a low voice. He does not hold up a hand to show exactly how close he is to murder. Vladimir can't judge how mad he is. He figures it is somewhere between frustrated and livid.

"I left a note," Vladimir says.

"That's what the paper on the counter was?"

"I, uh, can't write." Vladimir holds up his broken hand.

"Right. Sorry. Where were you?" Sadik drops Vladimir, allowing the boy time to move a safe distance away.

"I went to Giurgiu. I went to see a friend and I got Aurel a gift. Where is he?" Vladimir glances around the living room, searching for a child sized shape. "That was the surprise, wasn't it?"

"He's in your room, asleep. I think. I haven't heard from him in a while."

Vladimir looks down the hallway at the closed door. A brick of fear crashes into the back of his head, scattering whatever happiness he had. "Is he…you know?"

"No. I don't know. Use your words."

"God, I don't know what I mean, either." Vladimir pulls off his jacket and tries to hang it up. He misses the hook by a longshot and the jacket drops to the floor. "Is it okay if I go see him?"

"Pick up your jacket," Sadik says as he leaves, which is not an answer to Vladimir's question, yet somehow gets the point across.

Vladimir hangs his jacket on the hook, brushing the rain from the polyester. He hesitates. Vladimir is an incredible staller, well-versed in the art of taking as long as humanly possible to avoid what needs to be done. Sadik leans through the doorway to the kitchen, watching him wipe every raindrop off his jacket.

"Vladimir?" he says.

"Yeah?"

"Don't be strange, please."

"Thanks for the advice," Vladimir says, pretending like he's not held together by a phone number written on his arm. Sadik tells him to stop dragging his feet. Vladimir didn't realize he was.

He puts his hand on the doorknob. Should he knock? It is his room. It is also Aurel's room, and Aurel is just as deserving of privacy as he is. Then again, knocking would make things uncomfortable because Vladimir always goes in without asking and –

 _Pull yourself together. It's a door, you live here, and Aurel is ten. He doesn't care about privacy yet_.

Vladimir pushes the door open, bracing himself for the worst. He isn't sure what the worst is but he is more than prepared for it.

Aurel is asleep in his bed, hidden by blankets. He does not look like the same boy Vladimir carried into the hospital. He is small and frail, and that was fine in the hospital, where people are supposed to be small and frail. Not here. Not at home. Vladimir sits down on his bed, scared to look away from Aurel. He sees _it_ in the corner of his sight. He will not recognize it because he wants to think that nothing has changed for as long as he possibly can.

Aurel opens one eye, then the other. "I'm not asleep," he says in a low whisper. "I don't want to see Dad right now."

Vladimir nods. He understands this better than anyone else.

"Do you want to see something cool?" Aurel asks.

Vladimir nods again.

 _Say something, you piece of shit. Tell him how much you love him. Tell him you're glad he's okay. Apologize for getting him shot in the first place. Don't sit here and do nothing._

Aurel pulls himself upright. It pains him. Vladimir sees it on his half-brother's face and he feels sick, like the way he assumes pond scum feels. Aurel doesn't complain or flinch; his face screws up the way it does when he's about to cry. He pats the space next to him and Vladimir climbs into his bed, laying down beside him.

"Look," Aurel says as he pulls up his shirt to show off a row of stitches on his stomach, beneath his ribs. It's about the length of Vladimir's hand. "I'm going to have a scar." His voice is full of childish wonder. "The one on my back isn't cool. Bullets only make cool ones when they come out. Which sucks."

The back of Vladimir's throat burns. There was a bullet buried in his half-brother. There was a bullet taken out from him. He will have scars. When Vladimir looks at the line of stitches all he sees is blood, blood running down his hands and soaking his jeans and washing away. He is cold and dazed. Something inside of him is trying to claw out.

"They're not that great," Aurel says, almost dejected.

"They are. It'll be a cool scar. Way cooler than any of mine. Do you want to see a picture of a ghost?"

It's the first thing Vladimir has said to Aurel in weeks. Both have almost died. They are up to their necks in tragedies. Their entire world has fallen to pieces, and all Vladimir can think to say is "do you want to see a picture of a ghost?".

(Toris would know what to say.)

"Is it real?" Aurel asks, his voice soft with childish wonder. "'Cause I know what a fake one looks like. I'm a ghost expert."

"It's very real." Vladimir pulls the photo out and places it in Aurel's outstretched hand. He does not speak, hoping Aurel will find Kosta on his own.

"Show me where," Aurel says.

Vladimir traces the outline of Kosta's body. "Here. Do you see his face?"

"His?"

"I guess it could be a girl ghost. Do you see anything?"

Aurel looks up at Vladimir. "Do you?"

"Kind of," Vladimir says. How can Aurel not see Kosta when he's standing there so clearly? Why is Vladimir the only one who can see him? Vladimir hasn't gone through the entire scientific method in testing if Kosta is real, but today sealed it. Today was too close of an experience, too personal for him to believe ghosts don't exist.

"That's so cool," Aurel says with a huge smile. "You must have psychic powers. No fair. You get everything fun."

"You can't see him?" The voice that escapes Vladimir is pathetic. "You can't see a soldier? He's got dark hair and green eyes and he's smiling and…"

The Polaroid slips from Vladimir's fingers. Aurel picks it up and looks again. He's panicking. He wants to see something. He wants to please his older brother, the one who did not hold him back, the one who tried to step out of his life, the one who ran away.

"I shouldn't…I didn't mean to…Jesus, I have no clue what I'm doing." Vladimir takes the photo from Aurel and tries to rip it up – the plastic is stronger than it looks and he succeeds only in bending it. He folds the photo over and throws it at his bed. It doesn't go half the distance.

"Are you okay?"

It should be Vladimir asking Aurel that. Aurel doesn't need to worry about his mental older brother. Aurel doesn't need to be concerned that his brother sees ghosts. Aurel doesn't need any more problems. His spine is damaged. His legs refuse to work. He will be confined to _it_ for the rest of his life and Vladimir put him there. And now Vladimir has the audacity to melt down in front of Aurel.

"Yeah," Vladimir says. "I'm doing just fine."

"Really? Dad was on the phone earlier and said you were acting 'all fucked up again'," Aurel says in a terrible impression of his father.

Vladimir cries. Again. This must be the world record for a teenage boy crying and he is not proud to hold it. He holds Aurel like he's holding a china doll and sobs. Not in a poetic or pretty sense. In the ugliest way possible. Aurel is crying, too, and Vladimir wants to scream at himself, wants to cut himself open and bleed until there is nothing left to bleed. This is not how this needed to be.

"You cry every time you see me," Aurel says. "It's gross."

Vladimir isn't sure how long he stays with Aurel. What he does know is that Aurel falls asleep in his arms. He kisses Aurel's forehead (which he would never do when the boy was awake. That kind of emotional blackmail is lethal) and whispers how much he loves him, how much he missed him, how sorry he is.

At last, he acknowledges it. He turns and looks at the wheelchair and tells himself he is not going to be afraid of it.

* * *

 _jan. 8, 1990_

7-1-1-5-5-5-8-

Vladimir puts the phone down for the fourth time and sinks to the floor. His palms are slick with sweat. He glares up at the beige phone like this is all its fault. There is a headache starting behind his eyes. He curls his left hand against his thigh, his fingers popping from disuse. Now that they've been freed from their prison, Vladimir's been readjusting to having a functioning left hand.

A minute slips by before he reaches up onto the nightstand for the phone again. He tells himself this is no different than calling Eliot.

7-1-1-5-5-5-8-2-7-

As he's touching the 1, someone knocks at the door. The phone slips from Vladimir's hand, clattering on the floor.

"What?" Vladimir says as he picks the phone up and returns it to its base. No one responds but he can see a shadow under the door. "What do you want?" he says a little louder than before.

"Don't use that tone with me," Sadik says. "You need to pick up the pace."

"I'm almost done. Give me a minute."

"You've been in my room for twenty minutes. What can you possibly be talking about?"

Vladimir has yet to do any talking to Toris. In his head, he's had several full conversations. All last week he's spoken to Toris in his thoughts, too afraid to call the number written on the inside of his wrist. It doesn't make sense, considering Toris has seen him at two of the lowest points in his life. Things could not get worse. There should be nothing to fear, and yet the thought of calling him is enough to make Vladimir freeze up.

"Nothing important. I'll be out in a second," Vladimir says.

"Vladimir, I need to shower."

"We have another bathroom."

A pause follows, succeeded by muttered curses. "Okay. Sure. Fine," – Sadik always says three affirmations in a row when he gives in, each one more frustrated than the last – "you have three minutes to finish up and then you need to get out of here."

"Thank you." Vladimir is genuinely grateful. Sadik could have told him to stay out of his room and use the phone in the kitchen. He saw how nervous Vladimir was when he asked and his face softened. He probably thinks Vladimir is calling a girl.

"Sure," Sadik says as he leaves. "Three minutes, Vladik."

Can Vladimir even say everything he wants to in three minutes?

 _It's okay_ , he tells himself as he picks up the phone. _Don't overthink this._

7-1-1-5-5-5-8-2-7-1.

He's holding the phone up to his ear, listening to the rings. His mind is blank. The scripts he's created are gone; in their place are worries and a fluttering feeling. While he's attempting to scrape his courage back together, the other end of the line clicks.

"Hello?" Toris says.

"Hey." Vladimir isn't sure if he's even said anything out loud. His pulse is hammering in his ears. "It's me."

 _Why didn't I say my name? Toris doesn't know me from my voice; we've barely spoken. Fuck, it's too late to say anything now._

"Oh, hey, Vladimir. I figured you'd call today."

Toris was waiting for him to call? "You…You did?"

"Is this your first day back at school?"

Oh. Toris wasn't waiting. He knew exactly what Vladimir was going to do. "Yeah. Yours too?"

"Unfortunately. I'm guessing you haven't patched things up with Eliot."

"Well…" It's not that Vladimir hasn't tried to talk to Eliot. He went downstairs twice last week and when Eliot refused to come to the door, he decided it wasn't worth it to force him. Eliot will come around when he's ready. "It's not going so great."

"You want to skip?"

"Do you ever get tired of being right?"

"It's a curse," Toris says. "Where should I pick you up?"

"I don't know," Vladimir says, and immediately cringes. He's the one who lives in Bucharest. He knows the city center inside and out and he can't come up with a place to meet?

"How about your place? I remember how to get there."

"Sounds good."

"See you around twelve, then? I have to go to a few classes today or my brother will snitch on me."

"Twelve's fine," Vladimir says.

They exchange a few more words that Vladimir doesn't quite understand because it begins to catch up to him that this is really happening. He's spending the day with Toris, who is the first person in a while to care about him. Toris acts like Vladimir is not a strange, delusional orphaned teenager with low self-esteem and bad decision-making. How can anyone _not_ want to be with him? And considering Vladimir's other options are Eliot – who still refused to speak to Vladimir as of yesterday – and Erzsébet, Toris is the clear winner.

Vladimir leaves Sadik's room smiling. He moves through the morning in a dream-like state, not quite aware that Aurel is asking six thousand questions until his toes are run over. The crunch of his bones pulls him back to reality and he shoves the brake on the wheelchair back far enough that it sticks, leaving Aurel stranded in the center of the room. They've both learned how to irritate each other with the wheelchair, and Aurel uses it more as a tool to injure his sibling than to move.

"Vladi, come help," Aurel whines.

"Apologize to me first." Vladimir puts on his coat and takes his backpack from the table.

"You're so _mean_ to me," Aurel says as he pushes at the brake with all the force in his toothpick arms.

"Cool. Tell Sadik I took money from his wallet for the metro so he doesn't kill me." Vladimir takes two twenties from his stepfather's wallet, much more than the subway fare. He needs cigarettes and Sadik owed him a twenty, anyway, so it sort of evens out.

"You don't need that much," Aurel says. He's twisted around in the chair, glaring at Vladimir.

"It's not all for me."

A wretched grin spreads across his half-brother's face. "It's for a _girl_."

Although this has nothing to do with a girl, Vladimir's face still turns bright red. "No. I'll see you later."

"What's her name?" Aurel says. "Is she cute? Does she go to your school?"

"It's not a girl."

Aurel shakes his head in disbelief as he returns to pushing on the wheelchair's brake. Vladimir starts to leave, until he looks over his shoulder and sees Aurel struggling. He comes back inside and kicks the brake loose. Aurel throws a good punch into Vladimir's hip.

"I hate you and I hope you and your stupid girlfriend break up," he snaps.

"It's not for a girlfriend."

"No one would date you, anyway. You're too ugly."

"Thanks. Will you tell Sadik I'm going to be home later than usual?"

Aurel's eyes narrow. "You don't actually have a girlfriend, do you? Girls are gross."

Vladimir considers locking the brakes again, then decides it isn't worth it because he'll just feel bad again. Damn him and his sympathy. "No. Mind your own business," he says as he heads for the door. "I'll see you later."

It's been years since Vladimir went to school alone. Eliot and Erzsébet have always been by his side and without them, he's lost. There is no one to talk to as he gets on the metro, so he stares down at his shoes and wonders if he will ever date anybody or if he's doomed to be alone. It isn't that he doesn't like anyone (he's fostered several crushes over the years, but never acted on them). He isn't good with this sort of thing. He isn't good with people in general.

If Eliot were here, he'd say something sweet and kind of encouraging. Maybe he'd suggest classmates. Erzsébet would laugh and assure Vladimir that he will never be in love; however, even that would be better than mulling over his fate alone.

The walk from the stop at Piața Unirii to his school is a short one and he isn't in any hurry this morning, so he takes his time to kick rocks across the sidewalk and wade through a murder of crows. When he arrives at school, the hallways are thinly populated. He goes up to the second floor, turns left, and runs right into Gilbert Beilschmidt.

Before he realizes what he's done, Gilbert throws him up against the wall.

"Good morning to you, too," Vladimir says.

"Are you blind, too?" Gilbert says. There isn't a hint of sympathy in his eyes. He no longer cares for Vladimir's wellbeing. What happened to the Gilbert that felt guilty for knowing Vladimir was trying to kill himself?

"It's great to see you again," Vladimir says, returning to his routine. So much for hoping Gilbert would ease up on him.

People are beginning to gather around them. Vladimir can only see eyes, all watching him, all looking for a fist to be thrown. Don't they have anything better to do than watch the shit get kicked out of him?

And then he sees fluffy blond hair and a pale face. Eliot stands at the door to their chemistry classroom, frozen. He makes eye contact with Vladimir. Vladimir smiles. Eliot stares.

Gilbert grabs Vladimir's hand and strangles his wrist. "Your hand isn't wrapped anymore," he says.

"Yeah. It's a little stiff. Big fucking shame I can't break your nose yet."

"Should I break it again?"

"Fuck off."

Gilbert glances back at the crowd and smiles. He loves an audience. "I wouldn't be that mean. After all, you just got your jerking off hand back. Wouldn't want to break that again."

"Fuck you." Vladimir attempts to knee Gilbert in the stomach and misses. The crowd whispers and laughs.

"Sorry, I'll have to pass. I'm not a queer. Even if I was, I wouldn't go out with a gypsy."

Vladimir tries to kick him away and Gilbert knees him in the stomach with enough force that if Vladimir were not pinned to a wall, he would have buckled over. Instead, he's forced to bite his cheek and pray this will end before he's bleeding.

As Gilbert says some other homophobic insult, Vladimir remembers a secret whispered to him in the beginning of the new year.

He thanks God for Eliot Ciobanu-Ries.

"Don't you remember that party at Roderich's summer home?" Vladimir says, letting his voice dip to a mutter, forcing everyone in the hallway to go silent. Gilbert's smile stutters.

It takes him a long time for him to come up with a response. "What are you talking about?"

"You know what I'm talking about –"

Three seemingly unrelated dots are connected in Vladimir's head.

Eliot kissed Gilbert; Gilbert was in the car with Feliks and he called Gilbert _babe_ ; Toris is dating Feliks.

Gilbert's fist sinks into Vladimir's stomach – his solar plexus, if he were being technical. Sadik is always lecturing Vladimir on anatomical terms when he tells him where he got hurt during a fight instead of being concerned that his stepson is routinely getting beat up. Gilbert lets go of Vladimir and Vladimir throws a quick punch into his jaw. Gilbert staggers backwards, curses, tells Vladimir he's not worth his time, and stalks away. The crowd, seeing that nothing more is going to happen, disperses. When most of them are gone, Gilbert returns and grabs a handful of Vladimir's shirt.

"I don't know what that fucking queer told you," he whispers, "but you need to keep your mouth shut. Eliot lied."

"Feliks is cheating on Toris with you?" Vladimir says.

"Say one more fucking word about that and I'll kill you right fucking here."

"With _you,_ though?"

"I'm not dating any fag, and I'm not a queer," Gilbert says. He presses his heel into the top of Vladimir's foot, forcing Vladimir to shrink into himself. "But if I were Feliks, I wouldn't blame myself for cheating. That weird twink of his is pathetic. He's asking to be cheated on."

Gilbert gives Vladimir a parting kick to the shin. Vladimir doesn't feel it. Gilbert made it more than clear that Feliks is cheating – Vladimir has to tell Toris, doesn't he? He can't face Toris knowing what Gilbert and Feliks are doing behind his back. He can't stand by and watch Toris get hurt.

"Hey, are you okay?" Eliot asks as he comes up to Vladimir.

"Are you not mad at me anymore?" Vladimir says.

"No, I'm still pissed. I doesn't mean I don't care."

"It's not so bad."

"Do you have time to talk?"

"I…I guess? I'm not really doing anything else."

Eliot shrugs. "It's only school."

Something is wrong. Eliot is ritualistic about school and will not skip without hours of pressuring and bribing. Does he want to punch Vladimir, too? At least Eliot has the decency to do it in private.

He leads Vladimir down the hallway to their usual meeting place, a storage closet that's collecting more dust than anything. When Eliot opens the door, they are met with a wall of dark shapes and boxes. Once the door is closed and they turn on the lights, they turn to face every single portrait, statue, and Ceausescu memorabilia the school owns. Everywhere Vladimir looks, their ex-dictator stares at him with his lukewarm eyes and stupid smile.

"Christ," Eliot says. "I'd forgot about this prick."

"This is way too creepy." Vladimir walks up to a framed photograph of Ceausescu visiting their school. There is no glass pane guarding it and it's so tempting that he feels there is nothing to do except punch through it. The paper rips in a thin zigzag as his fist goes through Ceausescu's face.

"Vladimir, I need to talk to you. It's serious."

"Serious?" Vladimir frees his hand from the photograph. "Is this about the camera? Please tell me it isn't broken."

"No. I'm not ready to talk about that because I think I'll kill you if I do. Do you have the photo you took?"

"It's on the floor in my room. Why? Do you want it? There's not any –"

Eliot stops him. "What did you see in it?"

"What did _you_ see in it?"

Eliot pulls his hair away from his face, closing his eyes. He takes a deep breath and when he opens his eyes, they are overflowing with fear. Vladimir's heart skips a beat. He _saw._

"I saw a man," Eliot says, his voice paper-thin. "I saw a man in a military uniform, in the photo and earlier, in the front window. Clearly. And I need you to tell me you see him too or I'm going to go insane. Tell me that's your ghost."

"You've seen him, too." Vladimir holds himself back from shouting that he told Eliot so, that ghosts are real, and people should listen to him more because every so often he's right.

"Okay. So we're collectively hallucinating." Eliot crosses his arms, clinging to his sides as if he's falling apart. "Do…Do you know what it is?"

"A ghost? What else could he be?"

"A ghost. A ghost. Not a demon? Not a like a vampire or a wraith or…oh, Christ, I'm talking about ghosts like they're real. And they are. Maybe. There's something there and it is not a human." Eliot is pacing now, slipping between Romanian and Luxembourgish as he talks himself through this.

"I'm pretty sure Kosta's a ghost? He seems confident about his undead status," Vladimir says.

Eliot stops in his tracks. "It has a _name_?"

"Yeah. Konstantin, he goes by Kosta."

"You're implying that you spoke to it – him."

"I did. He's a nice guy. He only possessed me once."

Eliot pales. "He _possessed_ you? What the fuck, Vladimir?"

"It didn't hurt or anything."

"Vladimir. Ghosts can't possess people. Demons can."

"I don't know if there's ghosts rules or whatever."

"No! Don't talk about this like it's a normal thing. Don't you dare make this normal."

"I'm not. I'm explaining it to you."

"And you know everything? How do you know this isn't a fucking demon? You could be talking to Satan and you're acting like it's no big deal, like this shit happens all the time."

Vladimir shrugs. "I don't feel like Kosta is going to kill me or take my soul."

"Of course," Eliot mutters. "That's so you, Vladimir. Messing with a supernatural force and telling yourself, oh, it's no big deal. You are going to die and then that thing is going to come for me, and I am not dying at seventeen."

"He won't kill you or me. He's safe. I think," Vladimir says. "Do you want to meet him? I'm going to Giurgiu today. You can come with me. Toris won't mind."

" _No_. No, no, no. I will not be any part of this and you need to leave it alone."

"Why? Kosta shouldn't exist and he does, and he's lonely and he wants to talk to someone and how cool is it that I'm talking to a ghost?" Vladimir says with a grin.

Eliot does not share Vladimir's excitement. "Leave it alone, Vladimir. You don't understand that thing. _I_ don't understand that thing. I'm scared it will hurt you. I'm scared you'll be possessed or some horror movie shit like that and I don't want to lose you to something so dumb."

They fall silent. Vladimir doesn't want to admit that Eliot is right. He wants to be with Kosta because this is a once in a lifetime chance and if he goes to hell, he goes to hell knowing he met a cool demon. What's the point in living without taking risks? Although, this is a huge risk. Possibly much bigger than he is willing to take on. His soul is at stake, along with eternal damnation. Then again, eternal damnation can't be any worse than living in Bucharest.

The bell rings and derails Vladimir's train of thought. (It wasn't going anywhere important.)

Eliot sighs. "I can't stop you. I know that, and I know you're going to keep going to see it. Be careful. You're dealing with something powerful and terrifying and…we need to get to class."

"Right. Um, my offer still stands if you want to come along," Vladimir says.

"No. Get fucking possessed for all I care. But do it alone."


	11. Two-Time

_chapter eleven / two-time / jan. 8, 1990_

"Do you want to go to my house? You look cold," Toris says. They've been sitting in the parking lot by the docks for the past hour, talking about nothing and everything while listening to whatever cassettes they find in the glovebox. Vladimir was so wrapped up in the conversation he didn't even notice it was freezing in the car. Now that Toris mentioned it, he notices his fingers are numb.

"Only if you want to." Vladimir tries to be nonchalant. It isn't easy to do when he's shivering.

"Do you want my jacket? I've got five of them in the car."

"Why do you have so many?"

"Jackets are my weak point. Half of my paychecks go toward buying new ones." Before Vladimir can insist that he's okay, Toris pulls a military green bomber jacket from the backseat and gives it to him. Vladimir pulls it on with a hesitant thank-you. It smells of fresh laundry and diesel and he resists the urge to bury his face in the sleeve.

"It's a good color for you," Toris says with a smile. "Sorry if it's a little big. I usually buy oversized ones so Feliks can't steal them."

Vladimir's smile falters at the mention of Feliks. He's waited for the right time to tell Toris he's being cheated on. He also doesn't want to ruin what they have going, so he hasn't said anything. And maybe this will come back to bite him when he does tell Toris, but he'd rather have fun with him than comfort him. Vladimir's fed up with being sad.

Toris's car stutters for a few seconds before starting. The car makes a strange rattling, which Toris says started happening after the wreck. He thinks it's the back bumper that's dented inward like a reverse V. Vladimir thinks it's because the car is from the early 70s and Romanian.

"What does being Romanian have to do with anything?" Toris says.

"Most things from Romania are shitty."

"Does that apply to everything?"

"Most things. Cars, hospitals, governments, music, people," Vladimir says, listing each item on his fingers. He feels Toris looking at him and quickly adds: "Not you. You're alright; for a Romanian, anyway."

"You're more than alright for a Romanian," Toris says.

They drive through the suburbs of Giurgiu in silence. If Vladimir were with Eliot or Erzsébet, he'd be so uncomfortable he'd force himself to talk. Long pauses with them are a sign something is wrong. With Toris, they mean nothing other than there are no words to say. Vladimir finds himself most comfortable in these pauses, where he doesn't have to worry about saying the wrong thing or tripping over himself.

Toris lives on a crumbling side street lined with identical white houses. At the end of the street are a few small, worn down houses, hidden in the shadow of their cookie-cutter neighbors. He parks his car in front of a yard filled with the skeletons of trees and bushes. The front yard is full of garden boxes and homemade pottery housing dead plants. A pair of plastic chairs sit on the front patio. Each chair holds an impressive amount of sticks and branches that have been cut from trees with what looks to be a blunt knife and a lot of patience.

"They're my brother's," Toris says, nudging the lawn chairs overflowing with sticks. A few twigs dislodge from the pile and spill onto the patio. "He thinks he's going to build his own house in the yard, so he won't have to go to school or whatever."

"You have a brother?" Vladimir says.

"Two. Eduard is fourteen, and Raivis is six. They're both adopted. Eduard pretends I don't exist and Raivis hates me right now for no reason. I can't promise they'll be nice to you, so I'm sorry in advance."

"It's fine. My brother is ten, so I get it." Vladimir doesn't believe someone could hate Toris. He'd make the perfect older brother: he never gets mad, he considers everyone's feelings above his own, and he is quick to forgive. What could he have done to make his brothers mad? Apologized too much?

The front door creaks as Toris pushes it open. When Vladimir steps into the entryway, he sees a flash of movement in the kitchen and seconds later, a door slams somewhere in the depths of the house. Toris pretends not to notice.

"Which one of your brothers was that?" Vladimir says as he enters the kitchen. It's larger than he thought it would be, with enough space for a large table covered a peach-patterned tablecloth, three shelves full of plants, and a cabinet holding nice dinnerware and an elaborate collection of tchotchkes. The room is pleasantly cluttered and feels so much like a home that he can see himself living here.

"Raivis. He goes to school for half a day." Toris takes two glasses from the cabinet and places them in Vladimir's hands.

"Is he afraid of me?" Vladimir asks.

Toris shakes his head. "No. He's just like that." He pulls open the fridge door and takes a liter of milk from the door along with a tin of chocolate powder from on top of the fridge. "Here, I'll see if I can get him out here. Raivis!" he calls down the hallway.

"I'm not talking to you!" Raivis shouts back. "Jerk!" he adds for good measures.

"I have no clue what I did to him." Toris kicks the fridge door shut. "Last week he was –" He is interrupted by a soft crash and the sound of tiny objects rolling across the floor from the back of the house. "Oh, fuck. I can't wait to see what that was."

As they walk down the hallway, Vladimir hears two voices bickering. He can't make out the words; there are a lot of harsh tones and scuffling noises. Toris stops at a door covered in dents and scratches and knocks. The fighting stops. Someone says to answer and not look suspicious. Toris sighs and gives Vladimir the quintessential _siblings, right?_ look.

The door is inched open by a small boy with a mess of blond curls. He looks up at Toris and Vladimir with huge, pitiful blue eyes. His hands are covered in band-aids.

"We're not fighting," Raivis says in a voice that warms Vladimir's soul. He is the softest, tiniest, most adorable child Vladimir has ever laid eyes on.

Toris is unshaken by Raivis's adorability. "Great. Why is Eduard home?"

"He's not." Raivis stares at Vladimir. Vladimir isn't sure what he means by this and so he looks away, afraid to meet the boy's gaze. "I wasn't fighting with anyone."

"Don't lie to me, please." Toris pushes opens the door more, just in time for them to see a wiry teenager pull his hands free from beneath a mattress so fast he falls onto his back. He gives Toris a guilty grin from the floor.

The floor is covered in marbles. Hundreds of them, in every color and size. Eduard brushes some of them away as if they're nothing more than a little dust. An empty jar lays beside him on its side.

"Hey," Eduard says, in a laughable attempt at being casual. "I didn't think you were coming home so soon."

"What are you doing home?" Toris pushes past Raivis and stands over Eduard. Eduard pulls himself to his feet and attempts to make himself as tall as his brother, glaring at him from behind wire frame glasses.

"You skipped, too," Eduard says.

"This isn't about me. You should be in school."

Eduard glances toward Vladimir. He narrows his eyes. "Who are you?" he says as he looks him up and down. "Feliks's replacement?" Before Vladimir can reply, he turns to Toris and says: "You're pretty fucking bad at picking them."

"That is Vladimir, we're not dating, we're friends, and you will not be rude to him. What were you doing in here?"

"It's not your problem."

"You were looking under my bed. It is my problem. What happened with the marbles?" Toris moves away from Eduard, placing the milk and chocolate powder on a bookshelf.

"Eduard thought you were hiding drugs in them, so I dumped them out because he told me to," Raivis says. "There's nothing in there but marbles."

"You dumped them out…?" Toris looks over the sea of marbles like it's a battlefield full of casualties. Each marble casts a colorful shadow, painting the floor in a rainbow. "Okay. Cool. Can you come pick them up?"

Raivis pulls his hands into his sleeves and holds his arms up, the sleeves hanging limp. "Sorry. I don't have hands anymore."

"Raivis. Come pick up your mess."

"I don't have hands so I can't. Eduard's the one who wanted your drugs."

"You're such a _snitch_." Eduard takes a marble from the floor and throws it straight into Raivis's forehead with an unpleasant _crack._ Raivis isn't fazed. He doesn't even appear to notice the red welt appearing on his forehead.

"Eduard, don't throw things. Raivis, at least let Vladimir come in," Toris says as he sweeps the marbles underneath a bed with his foot.

Raivis steps aside. As Vladimir comes into the room, a small hand pulls on the edge of his jacket. "I don't think you're ugly," Raivis whispers. "Feliks is mean to me. You look nice."

"Thanks?" Vladimir says.

Eduard and Raivis spend a minute or two bickering and throwing marbles at each other while Toris begs them to stop and tries to apologize to Vladimir. At last he steps in between them. "Can you two do this somewhere else?" he says, looking from Eduard to Raivis. "I want to talk to Vladimir alone."

"Mom said you can't be alone with boys in the house because you're _gay_ ," Eduard says, folding his arms over his chest in smug defiance. And for the first time since they've met, Vladimir sees anger flicker over Toris's face.

"I am not dating Vladimir. He's a friend of mine."

Eduard isn't buying it. "Then tell me what you're doing with a boy in your room."

"It's not your problem." Toris's voice is venomous. Vladimir feels Raivis hide behind him, clutching his pant leg in his fists. He's expecting a fight. Is Toris a different person in his home? Vladimir can't see Toris ever lashing out; he's also met a ghost, so he's not sure what to think anymore.

"What are you going to do? Cry?" Eduard says.

"I'll tell Mom you skipped," Toris says.

"Oh, no, I'm _so_ afraid. I'll tell Dad you're gay."

The tone in the room shifts. Toris goes from furious to almost pleading for Eduard's forgiveness. He takes his brother by the shoulders, speaking in a voice so soft Vladimir can't hear him. Eduard rolls his eyes. There is a handshake offered, an exchange of money from Toris's wallet to Eduard's hand, and Eduard walks away looking like he's won a game of poker. He stops in front of Vladimir.

"Don't fuck my brother on my bed," he says, knocking his shoulder into Vladimir's as he walks by.

"Don't use that word in front of Raivis," Toris snaps.

"Fuck you, queer."

Eduard vanishes into the living room. Raivis unhooks himself from Vladimir and runs to his oldest brother. Toris ruffles his curls and takes a box of colored pencils down from the top of the dresser for him. Raivis mumbles a thank-you.

"Hey, will you come get me at six? I'm working tonight," Toris says.

"I'll make Eduard do it," Raivis says and runs off, not without giving Vladimir an angelic smile.

"I am so sorry," Toris says as Vladimir shuts the door. "I didn't think Eduard was here. He doesn't mean anything he said. He's in one of those phases boys go through where they think it's funny to call everything gay."

"It's okay." Vladimir looks around the small room. There are two beds against opposite walls, and a bookshelf between them. The bed on the right is a mess of blankets, while the one on the left is made. It isn't hard to figure out which is Toris's. The window does not have curtains, only tangled Venetian blinds that are stuck in the up position. There is a desk shoved into a corner with a typewriter on it, surrounded by stacks of paper. "Do all of you share a room?"

"Yeah. Raivis sleeps in my bed or on the floor. Lately he's been sleeping under my bed and grabbing my ankles when I'm asleep and it scares the shit out of me." Toris pushes open the window, letting a cold breeze into the room. "You smoke, right?"

"Yeah."

"Cool." Toris lifts up the corner of the bed opposite the one Eduard was searching in and pulls a paper bag from beneath. "Eduard is too dumb to check under his own bed," he says as he tosses the bag to Vladimir and continues kicking marbles aside. "Roll whatever you usually smoke."

Vladimir unfolds the crumpled bag to find a purple lighter, safety scissors, rolling paper, bits of cardboard, and small plastic bag of weed.

"You meant weed," he says.

"What else would I…?" Toris stops himself. "Oh. You've never smoked?"

"Cigarettes, yeah. Not weed."

"It's okay if you don't want to. Don't feel like you have to. I'm sorry, that was probably rude of me to assume that you smoke."

Vladimir doesn't hesitate before answering. "I don't care. There's a first time for everything."

Toris smiles and sits down on the floor, resting his back against Eduard's bed. "Come here. We have to stay low or else the neighbors will see, and they tell my parents everything. I punched Eduard once – as a joke – and they told my parents I was hitting the kids when they weren't home and I shouldn't be left alone with children. My dad yelled at me for two straight hours."

"I'm sorry." Vladimir sits down next to Toris, handing over the paper bag.

"It's okay," Toris says as he cuts apart a bud with the safety scissors. His fingers don't fit properly in the scissors and it'd be easier to use his thumb and index finger, however, he jams all his fingers into the scissor holes like he's still in kindergarten. "My parents are nice and all. They expect perfection out of me, though. I guess it's because they want my brothers to have a good role model, since they're both from some pretty fucked up places. I can't do anything here without feeling like my dad's going to kick me out."

Vladimir rests his chin on his knees, watching Toris work. He rolls the joint like he's preforming surgery – every movement is delicate and precise, yet well-rehearsed. "You don't seem to like your dad."

"Does anyone like their dad?" Toris asks before licking the rolling paper. "What else is there to say? He's a dad. You know how it is – they think that you should be just like them because clearly they're not wrong, it's _you."_ His hand shakes as he flicks the lighter. After a minute of trying to ignite it, Vladimir fishes the lighter from his pocket and in one easy motion, lights the joint.

The smoke smells of citrus, which is more than a pleasant surprise. In his limited experience with marijuana, it's always smelled like cat piss. Vladimir tries to ask why citrus, but Toris places the joint in his half-extended hand and the only word that escapes his mouth is "Lemons?"

Toris seems a bit confused by this; he answers, nonetheless. "Yeah, lemons. I get it from a guy who comes in from Bulgaria because I'm picky. I probably pay too much for it."

"It suits you."

The smoke is thick and burns, not in the way cigarettes burn. It feels like he's filled his lungs with the citrus tea Sadik likes. Vladimir coughs and in the moments where he isn't gasping for air, apologizes for coughing. Toris says it's okay, it takes time to get used to.

"Here." Toris takes the glasses, milk, and chocolate powder down from the bookshelf. He pours a glass of milk and mixes in the chocolate powder, then hands the glass to Vladimir. Vladimir hasn't had chocolate milk since he was seven. It tastes of summertime and kisses on his forehead. It doesn't do much to help the burning in his throat.

The smoke hangs over them in a cloud. Both are laughing so hard they can't speak. Toris is trying to tell Vladimir about how he used to have a stutter when he was younger and he can barely get out two words. This, in turn, makes him stutter and sends the two into hysterics. Toris's laughter sounds like dandelion fluff. He's rolling a fourth joint and there is no longer any precision in his work.

Time drips by. Everything is syrupy. They don't speak for a while. When they do speak, it doesn't make sense. Vladimir closes his eyes for a moment and when he opens them, he's laying on the floor with Toris across from him. Toris is playing with Vladimir's hair. He smiles. Vladimir looks up at the ceiling (it's moving, imperceptibly; undulating like when a river begins to thaw and water moves beneath the ice).

"Why didn't you call me sooner?" Toris asks as he strokes Vladimir's hair. "You're so much more fun to smoke with than Feliks."

 _Because he's cheating on you._

"I was afraid," Vladimir says.

"Of what? Me?" Toris puts a hand on his chest in mock offense.

Vladimir glances up at Toris. He has the most adoring eyes and Vladimir's blushing. "Not really you, but yeah, you. You're the most amazing person I've ever met and I'm, um, _me_. I don't want you to hate me."

"It takes a lot for me to hate someone."

"You've literally seen me at my worst."

"And I still like you," Toris says. "I think you're weird, Vladimir. You're the weirdest fucker I've ever met. I love that about you. You fully believe ghosts are real, you get kidnapped by people with nice cars, you don't hate me for being bisexual. I can't imagine anyone like you and I'm so happy you stumbled into my life. Sure, you're kind of a jerk sometimes. Everyone's a jerk."

"Not you. You're perfect."

"Wrong. I have so many flaws because guess what?" Toris leans in close to whisper in Vladimir's ear – his hair brushes Vladimir's cheek, soft and lemony like the rest of him. "I'm a human being, too," he says.

"No way."

They are giggling like they're in primary school. Vladimir wishes he could stay like this forever: wrapped in Toris's jacket, smothered in his presence. Lying on the floor together. Staring at each other, picking apart their features. Toris has a hint of freckles and a slight bend in his nose. Sunlight sticks in his hair like honey. His skin is the same pale, flawless tone as royalty have in oil paintings.

"You're so pretty," Vladimir says. The words linger in cold afternoon for a moment.

"You're pretty, too." Toris traces his hand down the side of Vladimir's face. "You're so rough. All angles and points. It surprised me how soft you were."

"I mean it. You're cool and sweet and I love your eyes. You're like, the opposite of me. I'd be gay for you." Vladimir isn't sure what he's saying. It isn't coming from his head. It's coming from his heart and he wants to stop it, wants to shove it down and bury it with so much else. The smoke in the air pulls it loose from him.

Toris's eyebrows knit together. "Don't be gay. It's not worth it. All I've got from dating Feliks is anxiety."

"Then you're not meant to be with him."

 _Just tell him he's being cheated on._

"I know. There isn't much else I can do." Toris cradles Vladimir's jaw, tracing his cheekbone with his thumb. "He's the only gay guy in Giurgiu."

Vladimir props himself up on his elbow, looking at Toris's constellation of freckles instead of meeting his eyes. "I think I love you."

 _What are you doing?_ he screams at himself. He isn't listening. His mind is racing, and his hands want to grab Toris and pull him down and kiss him. He wants to hold hands with Toris, make out in his car, and spend his afternoons smoking weed with him in his shared bedroom. Just _be_ with him. Vladimir is infatuated with this boy. He can't imagine living without him and the thought of having to go home alone scares him.

"Oh. Vladimir, I…" They are inches apart. Their noses touch and their fingers interlace. "I'd be gay for you, too."

Before their lips can meet, the bedroom door is thrown open with a _bang._

Vladimir and Toris jerk away from each other, trying to find a natural position. Vladimir ends up laying on the floor with his hands hiding his face and Toris pretends to be interested in a bruise on his arm. Through the gaps in Vladimir's fingers, he can see Eduard standing in the doorway. The boy's mouth is kind of open.

"Were you two in the middle of something?" he asks.

"No," Vladimir and Toris answer in unison. They look at each other and dissolve into laughter. They are the only two people in the world.

"Feliks is going to be pissed," Eduard says, reminding Vladimir of both his and Feliks's existence.

"We didn't do anything," Toris says, looking to Vladimir for help. Vladimir give him an overenthusiastic nod.

"Do you think I'm stupid?" Eduard says. "I didn't think you would cheat. You're such a suck up." He notices the bag at Toris's side and shifts into the same devious look he had earlier when threatening to out Toris. "I won't tell Feliks if you share."

"You're too young. Why are you even here?" Toris says, pulling the bag close to his chest.

"Raivis told me to get you at six. It's 7:23, by the way." He comes over to them to kick Toris in the thigh, then slams the door as he leaves.

It takes a minute for this to register with Toris. He rests his head in his hands, smiling at Vladimir. The grin fades into worry, which turns into panic. He is on his feet in an instant, gathering his wallet and a name tag from the desk while taking a sweater from the dresser.

"I need to go," Toris says. "You'll have to take the bus home."

Toris drives him to the bus terminal and they do not talk about what almost happened. Did they really almost kiss or was it Vladimir's imagination? Toris presses cash into Vladimir's palm. Vladimir runs his thumbs over the creases, ignoring the swell of emotions in his chest. The world outside the window is blue and light and he wishes it were summer or at least spring. It's going to be so cold when he gets out of the car and he's not looking forward to the long ride home.

"You can keep the jacket," Toris says.

"I don't want to leave."

"You need to go home and I have to go to work."

"We don't have to," Vladimir says as he grabs Toris's wrist. "We could go back to the docks or you could come home with me. Sadik wouldn't mind. I'd tell him you're my friend."

Toris leans over and kisses Vladimir's cheek. "We'll finish this soon. Bye, Vladimir. Call me."

Vladimir is standing alone on the sidewalk. The wind whisks away the warmth from Toris's lips. He sinks into the concrete. A dull ache blooms in his ribcage as he walks into the terminal and follows him as he gets on the bus. He sits in a seat by himself and traces where Toris kissed him, hoping to find something left of him.

He slips in and out of sleep on the ride home. Each time he is jolted awake by a pothole or a crying child, Vladimir looks next to him for Toris and finds no one. The aching in his chest is growing into a stabbing. His heart is pounding. He pretends the jacket is Toris holding him, his awkward arms wrapped around Vladimir in a hug.

This thought of Toris holding him is enough to carry him to his apartment complex and drop him on the front steps. The stairs are thirteen to each landing, twenty-six between floors. There are far more than twenty-six steps between the first and second floors. He counts hundreds. There are five between the second and third and seven between the third and fourth, stretching out for an eternity before him. He's so caught up in counting steps that he almost runs face-first into his door.

Vladimir can't find his keys in his pocket, so he's forced to knock. Maybe he'll be able to avoid Sadik. Maybe Sadik will be forgiving. Maybe Sadik will remember that he did cocaine once in 1969 (he told Vladimir this to scare him away from drugs) and in the grand scheme of things, cocaine is much worse than marijuana. He's also certain Sadik spent most of his teens high, because he doesn't remember anything from them and the few stories he's told Vladimir about his life in Turkey were about him doing drugs.

"Do you need something?" Eliot stares at him as he leans up against the doorframe.

"What are you doing here?" Vladimir says, looking over Eliot's shoulder. No one is in the living room. "Is Sadik here?"

"Why would he be?"

"This is my home."

"Is this a joke?"

"Is this a joke?" Vladimir echoes. "Why are you here?"

"I live here."

"No, you…" Vladimir's voice dies in his throat as he sees the number on the door: 309. He went up to the fourth floor, though. Didn't he count the steps? "My bad. I'm sorry, I don't know what I'm thinking."

Eliot eases the door closed, stepping out into the hallway with Vladimir. "Are you okay?"

"I, um, not really?" Vladimir steps back from Eliot, trips over his own feet, and catches himself on the metal banister. "I need to go."

"No. Sit down before you hurt yourself." Eliot takes Vladimir by the wrist and eases him down to the stairs. Vladimir has no choice except to follow. Eliot sits next to him, taking a good look over Vladimir. He crinkles up his nose in the cutest way. "Jesus, Vladimir. What did you do?"

"Nothing. I have to get home before Sadik finds out."

"Finds out about what?"

"That I smoked weed with Toris."

Vladimir realizes what he's said far too late. He covers his mouth, choking on the scent of lemon and laundry. Eliot goes through every stage of grief in less than a minute.

When Eliot decides to speak, he sounds more lethargic than angry. "You're high. Without me."

"You're mad at me, aren't you? I asked if you wanted to come this morning and you said no, you're afraid of ghosts and I shouldn't mess with things I don't understand. And I didn't!" Vladimir adds with a grin. "Toris's weed smells like lemons and he let me have his jacket and now I'm here, with you and you still look mad."

Eliot does not say anything. He picks at the skin on his throat and looks somewhere else, anywhere else. "We had a pact," he says, his words as soft as lace.

On a spring afternoon two years ago, they agreed they would smoke weed for the first time together, whenever both were ready. Somehow, Vladimir allowed this to slip his mind. His only concern was Toris, not forgotten promises and Eliot's feelings.

"We were supposed to do this together," Eliot says.

"We still can."

"It's not the same." Eliot rests his head against the wall. There is a chasm between them. "I know it's stupid, but this was going to be an 'us' thing. And I guess it isn't now. Great."

"It's not like you were ever going to do it, anyway," Vladimir says.

"I would, if you wanted to."

"You're too afraid and I didn't do this on purpose. Toris offered."

Eliot scoffs. "You don't even know Toris and you pick him over me."

"You're mad at me right now! What was I supposed to do? Tell Toris 'oh, hold on, this should be a me and Eliot thing, let me call him and see if he doesn't want to murder me still'."

"You haven't tried to apologize!"

"I did. I came down here every day last week to talk to you and you shut me out. If you would listen to me, you'd know that I've been trying to make it up to you because I feel horrible! I don't mean to hurt you and I keep hurting you and you're my best friend, El." Vladimir becomes a mess of choked back tears. "You're my best friend. I don't want to fight with you. I'm sorry about your mom and about Toris. I'm sorry we didn't smoke weed together."

"Go home," Eliot says as he stands up.

Vladimir feels the slam of the door reverberate in his soul.

Paranoia sets in quick. Eliot never liked him. He only put up with Vladimir; everyone only puts up with Vladimir. Eliot will stay mad at him forever. They won't speak to each other again. Who will Vladimir talk to during the summer? He can't spend every day with Erzsébet. She's been putting up with him, too. Why does he destroy every relationship he has? Why does he hurt everyone? Eliot must have been waiting for this moment. He was waiting for a chance to sever Vladimir.

In a brief second when the fear settles down and he can stand on his own, Vladimir heads upstairs. His door is unlocked and he goes inside, praying no one will notice him. If there is a god listening to him, they laugh. Aurel is on the couch watching TV and announces that Vladimir's home. Sadik catches Vladimir before he can sneak back to his room.

His stepfather's words don't make sense. Vladimir thinks he's being lectured. He hears the questions (who were you with, why were you gone so long, what have you been doing) and can't even bring himself to lie. He stands there, unable to do anything. Defeated. Wishing he could fix things with Eliot. Hopelessly in love with Toris. Sadik grows tired of Vladimir's silence and takes his chin, tilting his head up to force eye contact.

"What's going on?" Sadik says. "You look like you've been crying."

"I'm okay."

"What's happened now?"

A lot happened.

A lot is happening.

Vladimir can't breathe.

Everything in Vladimir snaps in one great motion and the floor falls out from under him. He wraps his arms around Sadik's neck and presses his face into his shoulder. Sadik stiffens for an instant, then puts his arms around Vladimir, as tender as he would with Aurel. He strokes Vladimir's hair – in the way Toris did and Vladimir's heart flutters at the thought of that soft hand – and tells him it's okay and he needs to go to his room and calm down. Aurel asks what's wrong with Vladimir.

"He's just upset," Sadik says. "Right, Vladi?"

Vladimir does not move.

"I'll be there in a minute. Go lie down."

Vladimir doesn't argue. He climbs into his bed, shoving himself in the corner and pulling the blankets up around his shoulders. The place where Toris kissed him burns. Can Sadik see it? Does he know his stepson is in love with a boy? Would he care? Vladimir's done much worse things than fall in love.

He is sure he will die if Sadik finds out.

Sadik comes into the room and stands over Vladimir. "Hey. It's okay," he says, placing a reassuring hand on Vladimir's knee. It does nothing to calm him down. "What did you take?"

Vladimir shakes his head. "Promise you won't be mad."

"I promise I won't be mad."

"I smoked weed with Toris – you don't know him," Vladimir says when he sees Sadik start to ask who Toris is. "Everything was fine until I came home and then I talked to Eliot and now I feel like I'm going to die and can you stay here with me so I don't?"

"You're not going to die," Sadik says. "Did you do anything else?"

"No."

Sadik does not tear into Vladimir. He sighs, like usual. No words follow. He gets up and shuts the door, then turns on the radio before returning to Vladimir's side. As he holds his stepson in a one-armed hug, "With or Without You" plays. The song slows Vladimir's racing heart and he thinks of the old photo where Sadik is holding him not unlike this. There is too much going on in the room – too many colors, too many shapes, too much light. He is afraid to close his eyes, so he presses close to Sadik and mutters his fears. Sadik tells him to focus on the music. Vladimir wonders if Toris likes U2.

He replays their almost-kiss in his head and this time, their lips meet.

It's a comforting thought until Vladimir thinks Sadik can see the memory, too.

"Is this your first time?" Sadik says.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. I'm glad you're home. It's not good to do this alone."

Sadik stays with him until he can breathe again. By then, Vladimir is so tired he doesn't notice Sadik slipping out of the room. Vladimir looks out the window for years and touches where Toris kissed him. It feels like a stranger's hand is touching him.

When he wakes up in the morning, he is alone. The only other thing in the room is Vladimir's headache. He is sick to his stomach. The memory of the kiss weighs on his chest. The sunlight coming through the windows is cold and bitter. A slow realization creeps up on him and he rolls over in bed, hoping he can avoid it by burying his face in the mattress. It doesn't work.

Vladimir is broken into two people: the Vladimir in love and the Vladimir who isn't.

He knows which one is really him.

Vladimir feels a short-lived empathy for Gilbert Beilschmidt.

At least he's not an asshole toying with Eliot's feelings. He's just a clueless seventeen-year-old that wants someone to love him. It isn't his fault he was high and Toris is so goddamn pretty. It's not his fault that he wants to kiss someone who cares about him and can see past his issues. If only Toris were a girl, this wouldn't have to be a problem. But Vladimir cannot bring himself to love Toris. He can't risk trying to be gay, and besides, he was high. He didn't know what he was saying or feeling.

As he gets out of bed, he pulls off the jacket and drops it on the floor. It smells of lemons and something far more disgusting now. He goes into Sadik's room and picks up the phone. His heart falters. His mind does not.

7-1-1-5-5-5-8-2-7-1.

The phone rings twice before Toris picks it up with a sleepy hello. Vladimir flinches and wants to hang up. He makes himself speak.

"Hi," Vladimir says. "I need to talk to you."

"Hey, Vladimir. How are you doing? I didn't think you'd call back so –"

"I can't be in love with you."

A pause. There's a soft shuffle in the background. "Is it Feliks?" Toris says. "I'll break up with him. I don't care if he outs me. I want to be with you. I love you."

 _Jesus Christ, don't say that. Don't act like you love me._

"I can't do this, Toris. It isn't me."

"Okay. I get it." He hears Toris's heart breaking and angry tears rush to his eyes. He is not in love with this boy. He is not falling for him because he is not gay, he is just desperate. "You know you."

"Can we forget that ever happened?"

"Forgotten."

"Thanks."

"I'm here if you change your mind about yourself," Toris says. Why does he have to sound so pathetic? Can't he be calm and collected like normal?

"I won't," Vladimir says and hangs up before Toris can say anything else.


	12. What Kind of Ghost Would You Be?

**Apologies for updating this chapter twice in a 24 hour span! I had a moment of inspiration and I'm running with it. Thank you for patiently (or impatiently) sticking through my insanity with me :)**

* * *

 _chapter twelve / what kind of ghost would you be? / jan. 13, 1990_

"Do you enjoy getting hypothermia?" Kosta asks as he drapes a blanket over Vladimir's shoulders.

"I make bad choices, okay?" Vladimir pulls the blanket up around his neck, halfway hiding his face in it. It smells of rosy smoke and generic church mustiness, which dredges up old memories of Sundays spent in church at his mother's side. He can feel the scratchy sweaters his mother forced him into, their rough wool driving him insane as he was forced to sit still.

Kosta kind of laughs as he turns on an ancient space heater with a flick of his hand. It makes a terrible humming noise, as if it's moments away from exploding. "Don't you own a coat?"

Vladimir looks down at Toris's jacket. It doesn't quite fit him, but it's warm and most of the weed smell is gone. And it is a good color for him. "I thought this would be good enough. I didn't realize it would start snowing."

"You can't feel it?"

"Feel what?"

"The snow coming." Kosta glances out the window at the fat snowflakes drifting down from the bleak sky. He scrunches up his face in disgust, or maybe pain. "It hurts my bones."

"You don't have bones."

Kosta rolls his eyes. "It hurts my ether."

"Pretty sure that's not a thing."

"The snow hurts me, and so does the rain. Especially thunderstorms." Kosta shudders at the thought of a storm. "Did you come here to insult me?"

"No," Vladimir says. "I just think you're lying to me because I don't know a lot about ghosts."

"I'm not. What are you doing here?"

"Do I always have to have a motive when I come here?"

"Yes."

"Fine. I wanted someone to talk to."

"That's it?" Kosta says with a smug grin. "It's not because you miss me or anything?"

"No. I wanted to talk to someone who isn't mad at me."

Vladimir didn't speak to anyone this week outside of a few stray conversations with Sadik and bickering with Aurel. He gave Eliot space and ignored Toris's phone calls, shutting himself off from everything so he could overthink and go through several crises in silence He sat in his room for hours, rolling around the pearl that Toris left in his head. The twisted feeling in his insides consumed him. And this morning he could not take it anymore, he couldn't listen to his thoughts running rampant for one more day.

He came to Giurgiu to apologize to Toris.

It took hours of psyching himself up for Vladimir to even leave his apartment and several times on the walk to the bus station he began to turn around. He rehearsed on the bus here, going through every scenario. Vladimir even prepared himself for a fight – not that Toris would ever hit him, but life is full of surprises and Toris could definitely kick his ass. Then he got to Toris's street and realized all the preparing in world could not help him. Seeing the house at the end of the street tore him open.

And he ended up here instead. He knew he would. Along the way he got lost and waded through knee-high snowdrifts, so by the time he arrived he was shaking and could no longer feel his legs. He wasn't sure if the church would have power, or if Kosta would be able to warm him up. He very well could have hypothermia.

(It was still better than facing Toris.)

"Hello? Vladik?"

Vladimir didn't notice he was staring at a spot on the wall until Kosta taps his shoulder. He flinches and returns to reality a little too slow to hear whatever Kosta asked him, so he nods and hopes it wasn't a serious question.

"Something's on your mind," Kosta says.

There is a lot on Vladimir's mind. Where would he start? "Sort of."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

Kosta looks like he wants say more, then decides against it. He gets up and goes over to the dresser, shuffling through a small pile of cassettes on top. "You like Madonna?"

"No. She's annoying."

"Good for you." Kosta picks up a white cassette and shoves it in the portable radio on the table. "Material Girl" plays through the scratchy speaker, which makes the song better, somehow. Not good. Just better than normal. "You'll learn to appreciate Madonna when she's the only new music you've heard in twenty years. I have a very limited music selection here, and most of it is church music."

"Didn't you have _Purple Rain_?" Vladimir says.

"No."

"Yeah, you did. You played it when we were cleaning up the church."

"Are you sure you're remembering right?"

"Yes. It's my favorite album after _Psycho Killer_."

The scar across Kosta's throat appears. He raises is hand to cover it. "Oh. Maybe I do and I've forgot. I don't go into the main church often." He turns his back on Vladimir and focuses on organizing the clutter on top of the dresser, mumbling along with Madonna.

"I could go get it," Vladimir says.

"This is fine."

"Your music taste is messed up if you think Madonna is better than Prince. You're going to get fucked up if you listen to 'Material Girl' over and over." Vladimir pushes himself up, keeping the blanket wrapped around his trembling shoulders, and takes a couple of steps toward the hallway.

He is pulled back by his throat, as if Kosta wrapped a rope around his neck. He cannot breathe or move. The weight moves from his neck to his shoulders and guides him to the floor, tucking the blanket around him. Vladimir looks over at Kosta, who is wide-eyed and at a loss for words. He is fluttering in and out of view and disappears for a few seconds before slowly becoming opaque.

"I'm so sorry," he says. "I meant to grab your shoulder and you moved. Are you alright?"

Vladimir shakily nods, reaching up to feel where the phantom rope held his throat. "Why did you stop me?"

"It isn't important."

"Is there someone else here?" Vladimir turns to the hallway, which is far more ominous than it was seconds ago. The shadows on the walls twist and turn into legs and torsos and he can't tell if it's his mind or reality. Is he hearing footsteps or his own heartbeat pounding in his ears? "Or something else?"

The door eases itself closed. "I'm the only one here," Kosta says.

"Then why did you –"

"I don't want to talk about it, please. I didn't mean any harm."

"Okay?" Vladimir wants to ask more questions; however, this seems like a deep wound and he'd rather not make a supernatural being angry.

"Hey, I've been practicing my reflection," Kosta says, gesturing to the mirror where there is now a faint reflection where his should be.

"Is this what you do all day?" Vladimir is still confused about being strangled over a Prince cassette and the quick tone shift isn't helping. How can Kosta act as though nothing's happened?

"Sometimes. I can't see it well, so it's a lot of guessing."

"And this is fun for you?"

"I suppose. There isn't much else to do here besides clean and scare the mice." Kosta goes to the mirror and stares at himself like a dog would. Subtle parts of his face are shifting in his reflection – his scars rearrange, his eyes turn a lighter shade of green, the gap in his front teeth closes. His reflection is fluid, changing as he speaks. "If you happen to turn into a ghost, first of all: don't. This is miserable. Second, make sure you haunt somewhere where you cannot run out of things to do."

"I thought I couldn't choose if I wanted to be a ghost or where I haunt," Vladimir says. "Isn't that how you ended up here?"

"Well, not quite. I'm sure when you die, you will move on, so don't worry about that yet." Kosta pulls his hair back from his face and hides the scar on his forehead with his free hand. He stands up straight and a hint of color washes over him, as if he's standing in the golden light of a sunset. "So, everyone is mad at you?"

Vladimir can't tell if Kosta meant this as a question or a statement. "It isn't everybody. It's two people. Two people that I really like."

"What happened?"

"A lot."

"Care to elaborate?"

"I didn't come here so you could play therapist," Vladimir says.

"Like a Virgin" slows almost to a stop. "I'm trying to help you," Kosta says as the song returns to normal.

"And I'd rather not talk about it."

"I'm confused what your purpose here is."

"God, I don't know what I came here to do, either." The space heater is starting to heat up and Vladimir pulls his hands loose from the blanket to thaw them. "I've made a ton of mistakes since this Monday and everything piled up. I tried to fix some of it and then I chickened out. I was cold and I figured you could help me, so maybe I did come here so you could be my therapist, but what do you know?"

"I was seventeen once."

"Yeah, in nineteen-whatever. Do you even remember being seventeen?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

Kosta hesitates. His reflection melts away. "I don't remember much. When I died, I shut out a lot of my living memories and they've faded beyond repair. I remember a lot of places and colors, not people."

Vladimir, once again, has put his foot in his mouth. "Kosta, I didn't mean to –"

"It doesn't matter anymore. It's in the past. Hey, does this look like me?" Kosta asks, pointing to his reflection.

The person in the mirror is not Kosta. He has a soft, unscarred face. His eyes aren't glazed over and his nose isn't broken. He could be Kosta before the war, Kosta without a worry in the world. For the first time, Vladimir realizes Kosta was a kid once. He must've had friends and been in love. He had a home. People cared about him. Someone comforted him when he cried, someone fought with him, and someone kissed him. He was a person before he was a ghost.

"If you were younger and not so ghost-looking," Vladimir says.

"I look fourteen," Kosta says with a grin plastered over the sadness in his voice. "God, I was awkward looking."

"You look fine."

"Not all of us were blessed with good looks like you."

Vladimir shrinks into the blanket, hiding beneath the musty wool. "Shut up."

"What? I'm telling the truth." Kosta disappears and reappears on the floor next to Vladimir. His reflection lingers in the mirror for a moment – a carefree boy, looking ahead into nothing – before fading into a grey smudge and vanishing. "I find you rather attractive," he says.

"Are you hitting on me?"

Kosta shrugs. "I can be."

"I'm not gay," Vladimir snaps.

"I didn't say you were. It was a joke. I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were so sensitive today."

"I'm not."

"Oh?"

"I'm _not_."

Kosta laughs as he sprawls himself out over the floor. "Okay, okay, you're not sensitive."

"I'm sorry I don't want to be hit on by a ghost."

"Did someone hurt you?"

No one hurt Vladimir except for himself. "It's not your business."

"I know a broken heart when I see one."

"You don't know anything about me and I said I don't want to talk about it! Would it kill you to listen to someone other than yourself?"

"Actually, I can't die –"

"You know what I meant."

Kosta's grin fades and the radio sputters out. Vladimir feels like he should apologize; although, he told Kosta to stop prying and it's not his fault he's sensitive. It's not his fault there's this big open wound in his chest and he's had to walk around with it for a week while his friends pretended he didn't exist.

"I'm sorry," Kosta says.

"I'm sorry I'm so touchy."

"I get it. Even if you think I don't. Can I trust you to keep a secret?"

Vladimir looks down at Kosta. "Who would I tell a ghost's secret to?"

"There's a lot of weird people out there," he says with a shrug.

"Fine. I won't tell anyone."

Kosta sits up, leaning in close to Vladimir as though they're in a crowded room instead of an abandoned, decaying church. He brings the smell of lavender (Vladimir figured out the flower after hours of searching his small mental catalogue of flower scents) with him. "I died a virgin, so you're right, I don't know shit about love," he says with a distant smile.

"You were supposed to be a priest, though. That's kind of the whole point of being a priest."

"My parents made me go to seminary. I didn't want to be a priest."

"I didn't know your parents made you go," Vladimir says.

"My parents didn't want me to waste my life doing something I liked." Kosta rests his chin in his hands, looking into the glowing red depths of the space heater. His hair floats in front of his eyes like spiderwebs and he is no more than a pale outline of himself. "My life was spent in their control. I did everything they told me to. Even the dates I went on were set up by my parents.

"But there was one thing they could not control. There this boy who lived down the road from me. We'd always been good friends because our families' pastures were next to each other and we'd both be watching the sheep at the same time. One day we went down to the river to swim and we both seemed to have this revelation at the same time that we were madly in love with each other. When we kissed, it was the first time I had kissed someone and meant it. I wasn't doing what I was told.

"He started coming out to the fields with me more and more and we would hide in the grass and hold hands and kiss," Kosta's color begins to return and he's blushing. "He wanted to run away with me and make our own lives where no one could get to us. And I said I couldn't leave my family because I loved them and was under the assumption they'd love me no matter what. I was sixteen. I didn't know better.

"My father came out to bring in the sheep one night and caught us. He took me home and beat me unconscious. God, I think he did that for a week until my mother said I was being sent to seminary in Ruse. She said being with God would take this 'sinful behavior' out of me. And so here I am, eternally trapped in a church until my soul can be at peace. Looks like God won this one."

There is a dull ache in Vladimir's soul, one he's been nursing for the past week. "Jesus Christ, Kosta. I'm sorry."

"It's fine. I was gay in 1916. Something bad was bound to happen."

"Do you know what happened to him?"

"He went to war like me and came back with shell shock. He killed himself in the 50s. I only found out because my cousin told me the last time he visited. He sat down by my grave and told me…He told me that in the letter, my friend said I was the only one he ever loved. I cried because I wanted to be buried in the same cemetery as him. We could've been ghosts together. Gay ghosts," he says with a little laugh. "I never said I loved him. I kissed this boy hundreds of times and I never told him that I loved him. Tell people you love them, Vladimir. Including whoever broke your heart. Someday you won't be able to say what needs to be said."

"I didn't get my heart broken."

"Why are you afraid of admitting it?"

"Because I'm not in love," Vladimir says. "Everything with Toris is a huge misunderstanding."

"It's okay to be afraid of love."

"I'm not in love with Toris, though. I accidentally led him on, and we almost accidentally kissed, and I am not gay. Not that there's anything wrong with it," Vladimir adds when he sees Kosta's eyes flicker. "I'm not gay."

"Okay."

"You don't believe me."

"No, I do. Something happened with him, though. You're hurt."

A lot happened with Toris.

"You don't have to be in love with someone to have your heart broken," Kosta says. "You should go talk to him. It sounds like there are some misunderstandings between you two and you clearly think the world of him if you came out here in a snowstorm to apologize."

"I don't want to," Vladimir says.

"Why?"

"Because I've ignored him for a week and the last time we talked was bad. He's probably pissed."

"Would you rather fix this now or let it accumulate into a bigger issue?"

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't. I'm not sure what to say to him. I'd mess it up, anyway." The words Vladimir rehearsed this morning are gone, leaving vague apologies and pieces of sentences in their place. "It doesn't matter. I'll never see him again. This was so stupid. I should've stayed home."

"You might not see him, but this will weigh on you for a long time. Think about it this way," Kosta says. "If you were going to be a ghost, what kind of ghost would you be? A sad, miserable one like me who regrets his past and can't move on? Or a ghost who spends a few months kicking about because they want to comfort their family or find out where they left their keys?"

Vladimir hasn't thought much about the afterlife. He likes to believe that after you die there's nothing because the thought of eternity scares him more than an endless black void does. Which is technically an eternity, but at least it's an eternity of nothing. Until Christmas, he didn't know ghosts could be real, so he didn't consider that as an option.

"I guess I'd be a depressed teen ghost," Vladimir says. "And you can become a ghost because you want to know where your keys are?"

"I'm not sure. Perhaps. I can hardly figure out why I am still here. My point is, don't die with regrets. Which I know is hard advice to follow because my grandmother told me the same thing before she died and look where I am now. You can be better than me, Vladimir."

Vladimir doesn't know what he should say. He can't be better than Kosta, not when Kosta is so unafraid of himself. Vladimir cannot let the person inside of him out. He keeps himself caged for his own sake.

"Kosta?"

"Hm?"

"What do you really do when I'm not here?" Vladimir says. It isn't what he wanted to say.

"Not much. I work on my reflection or I listen to the radio. I keep tabs on the spiders that live here, too. They're not as creepy as you'd think. Some days I sit by the window and if it's nice out, I go for a walk and I can still feel a little bit of sunshine," Kosta says with the purest smile. "Most days I sit here and think about nothing. Why do you ask?"

"I get to be alive and all I do is complain about it. And that's probably really fucking hard for you to listen to."

"It's fine. I've been alone since the '50s, so I'm quite at peace with my existence. It is wonderful to talk to you, though. Even if you do complain. You make me miss being alive."

"Sorry."

"It's a good thing, Vladimir."

Vladimir can tell by the way Kosta looks away and crosses his arms that it is not a good thing. "Do you know why you can't move on?" he asks.

Kosta shrugs. "If I did, I wouldn't be here. It's alright, I'll figure it out sometime."

"Maybe I can help you," Vladimir says. "Since you can't leave."

"That's sweet of you. However, I doubt you could do anything. It's a rather personal affair." Kosta reaches over and touches Vladimir's shoulder, his hand going straight through so that his fingers stick out by Vladimir's collarbone. "You don't seem cold anymore. How are you feeling?"

"Better, I guess. Do you have any idea why you're here? Are you missing something?"

Kosta withdraws his hand, leaving a void in Vladimir's shoulder that closes after a few seconds. "I told you, I have no idea. It's most likely residual anger about how I died and how I was buried. Other than that, I don't have a clue why I'm here. Don't worry about me, please. I'll move on when the time's right. You have better things to do than help me move on." He nods toward the door. "And I can't keep the power running in here for more than an hour."

"Are you kicking me out?"

"That's one way to see it. I would love to spend more time with you, but I can't allow you to risk your health." Kosta gets up and walks to a small armoire. Vladimir always thought ghosts floated when they moved, yet Kosta seems grounded. Did he trade the ability to levitate for his psychic abilities? Did he even get a choice in what he could and couldn't do?

The armoire door groans as he pulls it open. "Here," he says, taking a leather bomber jacket from its depths and tossing it to Vladimir. "Don't freeze to death, please."

"How old is this?" Vladimir swipes dust from the coat's shoulders and gives it a good shake before putting it on. The sleeves of Toris's jacket stick out from the fur-lined cuffs, but the leather doesn't crack as he moves around. It's not half bad for something an old man left behind.

"I would say it's from the '60s. I've got no use for it, so you can have it."

"Thanks," Vladimir says, pulling himself to his feet. He takes the blanket from his shoulders, folding it up into a lopsided square and depositing it on the bed. As he heads to the door, the space heater and every light shuts off, leaving the room dark and freezing.

"It was good to see you," Kosta says. "Come visit in the spring when I don't have to worry about you getting hypothermia."

"I will."

Kosta walks with Vladimir up to the road, stopping where the fence begins. He can't go any farther. Vladimir lingers at Kosta's boundary for a minute, unsure of how to thank the ghost without coming off as the awkward teen he is. "I'm sorry your boyfriend died and you can't be gay ghosts together," he says. It's the best he can come up with.

"That's life. Or I guess I should say that's death. It doesn't matter anymore," Kosta says.

"Do you remember his name?"

Kosta shakes his head. "It's lost to me," he adds in a hurried voice.

"Sorry."

"You don't need to apologize for the past, Vladimir."

Vladimir tells him goodbye and Kosta lingers at the edge of his prison, watching Vladimir walk down the road. Fat snowflakes fall from the grey sky, covering the fields and roofs in a thin white blanket. When Vladimir turns to wave a final time to Kosta, the ghost has vanished into the snow.

Soon, Vladimir stands on the street corner opposite the orange house. He wants to move. He wants to turn around and leave, get on the bus and go home to steep in his misery for another few hours before he goes to bed. He wants to go inside and tell Toris everything that should be said. He hears the heartbreak in Toris's voice. He thinks of Kosta's dead boyfriend.

Vladimir will not live his life without saying the words he needs to.

He will not be a ghost forever lamenting over not apologizing to Toris.

Vladimir crosses the street and goes up to the fence. There is a light on in the kitchen and he sees a silhouette moving behind the curtains. Is it Toris? Will he even let Vladimir in?

There is nothing Vladimir can do besides try.

He pushes open the front gate and trudges through the yard up to the front door. He steels himself and raises his hand. Before he can knock, Raivis pulls the door open.

"You're Vladimir," he says.

Vladimir's worry and anger dissipates the instant Raivis speaks. "Yeah. Is Toris home?"

"No." Raivis leans outside, looking at the angry mob of primary schoolers outside his fence then at the snow covering Vladimir's jacket and hair. "Do you want to come inside? I'm home alone."

"You shouldn't invite strangers into your house and don't tell people you're home alone."

"You're not a stranger because I like you." Raivis steps aside, gesturing for Vladimir to enter. Vladimir isn't sure if he should go in, but he doesn't want to be rude and it's better than standing outside in the cold, so he follows the boy inside. He takes his jacket and shoes off and does his best to brush off the snow. Raivis pulls a chair up to the counter and begins pulling things out of the cupboard.

"Do you need help?" Vladimir says.

Raivis points to a chair. "Sit down. I've got this."

The kitchen table is covered in notebook pages full of crayon drawings. Vladimir shuffles through a couple of them, smiling at the brightly colored dogs and strangely well-detailed backgrounds. "You like drawing?" he asks as Raivis pours water from a kettle on the stove into a teacup with laser-like focus.

"Yeah."

"My brother draws all the time, too. What are you making?"

"I'm making a comic book for Toris. It's about a cowboy dog." Raivis comes over from the stove, pulls a notebook page from the bottom of the mess, and hands it to Vladimir. The sheepdog on the page is wearing a Stetson hat and has a gun in its paw. "He's a sheriff and he shoots bad guys," Raivis says with the nonchalance only a kindergartener could have. "Do you like it?"

"It's very cool. What's the dog's name?"

"Marku."

"That's a good name for him."

"Thanks. I thought it up myself, so you can't use it or I'll sue you." Raivis returns to the stove and Vladimir flips through some of the pages, smiling as Marku the cowboy dog stops a gang of cattle rustlers.

"This is for you." Raivis pushes aside his comic and sets a teacup of coffee down in front of Vladimir, then sits down beside him and picks up where he left off on his comic, using the red crayon to make a concerning amount of blood.

"Thank you," Vladimir says. The coffee has too much milk and way too much sugar in it, so much so that it doesn't resemble coffee anymore. "Where is everyone else?"

"Mom and Dad went shopping, Eduard's at his stupid mean friend's house, and Toris is at Feliks's again." Raivis makes a big scribble of blood bursting from the head of a rogue dog. "Toris isn't home much anymore."

"Oh." There is a bitter taste in Vladimir's mouth, and it can't be from the coffee.

"He calls you a lot. What do you two talk about?" Raivis asks as he draws cowboy boots on Marku.

"Not much."

"Is it grownup stuff?"

"Yeah."

"I knew it," Raivis says. "Because he's been crying sometimes and smokes a lot so I can't be in the room and I got to stay out here and watch TV. I'm making the comic so he isn't sad anymore."

"That's really nice of you. You're a good brother," Vladimir says.

He should have known Toris would turn to Feliks.

If only he'd told Toris what Feliks was doing behind his back.

"I'm better than Eduard. Eduard sucks at being a brother," Raivis says.

"Um, congratulations," Vladimir says. "Can I see a piece of paper?"

Raivis pushes him one of the blank pages and nudges the box of crayons closer to him. Vladimir takes a purple crayon. He hasn't used a crayon in years. It feels far too fragile in his hands, as though it could snap in half at any time.

For a minute or two he cannot think of anything to write. The feelings are there. He can't translate them into words, so he draws a line of dogs at the bottom of his page (or rather, ugly, lumpy little creatures in the vague shape of a dog. Art was never his strong suite) until words begin to arrange themselves in his thoughts. Raivis watches him with side-eyed glances as he writes.

 _Toris –_

 _This isn't how I wanted to do this but it's the next best way._

 _I am so sorry about everything. I'm sorry I led you on and ignored you. I'm sorry this has torn you apart. If it helps any, I've been a huge mess this week, too. I'm sorry I couldn't have handled this like a normal person._

 _This is really hard to say, and even harder to write out because it's a lot more difficult to write with crayon than I remember._

 _I love you, Toris. I'm sure of it. I think about you and I smile. I want to spend every day with you and go on dates and look at the stars and talk about how much we love each other and every other sappy thing you can think of. This sounds so dumb coming from me. You are the first person I have ever felt this way about._

 _I can't love you, Toris. I don't know how to explain this to you other than I know I'm not gay. I can't love you now or ever. I feel like I'd be lying to you and I do not want to hurt you, ever. I wish I could be who you need me to be. I wish I could love you._

 _I would really like to talk to you sometime. You're a cool person and you put up with my bullshit. You're just a good person. I'll let you decide if you want to see me again, though. You can call me. You know my number pretty well by now. And thanks for the jacket. In case you want it back, I'll leave it here._

 _I need to tell you something else, too. I'm sorry I didn't tell you this the moment I knew._

 _Feliks is cheating on you. The night I tried to kill myself, I saw him in a car with Gilbert, the boy he knows from Bucharest. I spoke to Gilbert about it and he made it clear that Feliks is cheating on you with him. I'm so fucking sorry you had to hear this from me, now, but you need to know._

 _If you want to talk or need me to listen, I'll be there._

 _Vladimir._

"What did you write?" Raivis leans over, squinting at the words.

"It's private." Vladimir folds the letter up. "Can I go put this in your room?"

"Sure."

Toris's bed is as much of a mess as Eduard's, which can't be a good sign. Vladimir goes to Eduard's bed and pulls up the corner of the mattress, taking the paper bag from beneath. He sticks the letter in the bag before returning it to its hiding place, hoping that Toris will find it before Eduard does. He leaves Toris's jacket on the bed, along with a lot of guilt. The bomber jacket Kosta gave him isn't so warm anymore.

"I need to head home," Vladimir says as he returns to the kitchen. "Thank you for the coffee."

Raivis jumps out of his chair, holding a notebook page up for Vladimir. He's drawn a yellow dog with a blue bandana, a gun on its hip, and a green star badge pinned to its chest. "That's you if you were a cowboy dog. You can be Marku's deputy."

"Thank you so much, Raivis. I love it," Vladimir says. "You're a very good artist."

"Thanks. Are you coming back?"

"Maybe. It's up to Toris."

"I like you better than Feliks. Feliks doesn't appreciate my art."

"Feliks isn't a great guy."

"Yeah. Do you want me to walk you out?" Raivis is already putting on his coat and boots before Vladimir can reply. Vladimir folds up the drawing and sticks it in the inside pocket of his jacket before stepping outside with the boy. Raivis leads him to the gate and down to the street corner, explaining the big showdown between Marku and a vigilante while Vladimir nods along. Vladimir makes sure the boy gets inside before he continues to the bus station. He isn't sure if he's done the right thing.

On the ride home he opens Raivis's drawing no less than fifty times. Each time he sees the yellow dog and the childish _Vladimir_ written above his head, he doubts himself a little less.

By the time he arrives at his apartment complex, the moon is well overhead and a few of the brightest stars can be seen through the city lights. He trudges upstairs, stopping at the third floor. The knotted feeling in his stomach returns.

Eliot answers the door and almost shuts it before Vladimir sticks his shoe in between the door and the doorframe.

"Hey. Can we talk?" he says.

"I can't talk to you right now."

"Please, El. Give me a minute."

Eliot bites his bottom lip, sighs, and shuts the door behind him. "Were you outside?" he asks. "Your face is all red."

"Yeah. Listen, I'm so sorry about the camera," Vladimir says. "I should've listened to you. You deserve a better friend than me. I'm a fucking prick to you. I understand if you need more time away from me because who doesn't? I want to take a break from me, too."

Eliot rolls his eyes and Vladimir starts to apologize more, to let his terrible pent-up feelings bleed out; Eliot interrupts him before he can get too far.

"Vladimir, I'm not mad at you anymore," he says. "I don't care about the camera."

"So we can be friends again?"

Eliot glances down at his socks, his face beginning to turn red. "I don't know how I should say this to you. I, um… _Ech mengen, ech hunn eng Virléift bei Iech."_ He looks Vladimir in the eyes as if Vladimir understood Luxembourgish. "I mean, I think I need to be alone for a while."

Vladimir watches Eliot pick at a stray string on the hem of his shirt, looking as if he could not care if Vladimir died in front of him. "Can you tell me what I did?" he asks.

"You haven't done anything wrong," Eliot says. His accent, the one he's tried so hard to hide, bleeds through. "It's all me."

"Is there something I can change –"

"The problem is _me,"_ Eliot snaps. His eyes flicker, revealing some unknown emotion for an instant. It is gone just as quickly. "I'm sorry, Vladimir. Please, give me time."

With that, Eliot closes the door.

Vladimir thinks when he dies, he will be a lonely ghost.


	13. Hi, Mom

**! edit 5/2/2020: I added someone to the ending of this chapter because I felt like it would work better! Apologies for posting something and then backtracking on it a week later :) !**

* * *

 _chapter thirteen / hi, mom / april 28, 1990_

"And then I said, fuck it, we're done. I'm not going to stand here and let you walk all over me," Erzsébet says as she grabs the package of sunflower halva Aurel's pointing to and sets it in the basket on her arm. She marks off the halva on the list and takes a cigarette from the pack in Vladimir's pocket.

Vladimir tries to step on her toes; she's already backing away in anticipation, so the best he can do is mutter, "Leech."

"I don't have to help you," Erzsébet says with a wave of her stolen cigarette. "The least you can do is give me a cigarette for the migraine you two give me."

"You're not doing anything other than complaining," Vladimir says.

"I can walk out of this store at any time, Vladimir Cosmescu."

"You won't."

She shoves the basket into Vladimir and storms up the aisle toward the door. The squeaking of her sneakers slows to a stop a few steps away. "Aren't you going to say anything?"

Vladimir glances over his shoulder at her. "Aren't you leaving?"

"I am."

Vladimir makes a rolling _get on with it_ gesture with his hand.

Erzsébet rolls her eyes and returns to Vladimir, snatching the basket away from him. She pushes her curls away from her face and turns slightly away from him, as if she were too good to be seen in his company. "You're lucky I'm too goddamn nice to you," she says.

"Bullshit. So you're going on a date with Roderich, what, less than a week after you broke up?" Vladimir says.

"I mean, it's not _really_ a date. Roderich just wants to talk things out," she says.

"You're going on a date. With your ex."

She takes a long drag on her cigarette, considering the implications of the word "date". "Okay. So maybe it's a date. We spoke on the phone last night, and he seems genuinely sorry. I believe in second chances."

Vladimir lets go of Aurel's leg for a moment to grab a jar of strawberry preserves and place it in Erzsébet's basket. "Yeah, you've given him a lot of them. What is this, your eighth time getting back together this year?" he asks.

Erzsébet counts off on her fingers, stopping at the middle finger on her right hand. "…Why are you counting?"

"Because it's weird," Vladimir says. "You two fight all the time and like, half of what you talk to me about is how much you want to break up with him. I don't get how you fucking hate Roderich one minute, and the next you're in love with him. Stay together or break up. It's not difficult."

"It's not that weird."

"It's _really_ weird," Aurel says, leaning over Vladimir's shoulder to join in the conversation. "Who are we talking about?"

"Erzsi's boyfriend," Vladimir says, tapping a bag of flour on a low shelf with his shoe.

"You guys should break up," Aurel says.

Erzsébet picks up the flour and drops it in the basket. "I don't need a ten-year-old telling me how to live my life. You probably don't even know what a girl is."

"I'm almost eleven and girls are gross. Hey, Vladi." Aurel pats Vladimir's cheek, then points to a row of red and purple boxes on a nearby shelf. "Dad said you had to get the chocolate cozonac."

"No, he didn't."

"Yeah, he did," Aurel says with a strained smoothness.

Vladimir, although he and any other rational person could tell Aurel is lying, decides to humor him. "Erzsi, can you open the list?"

Erzsébet unfolds the list and holds it up for Aurel to see. Aurel snatches it out of her hand and holds it behind Vladimir's head, scratching Vladimir's neck with the corner. "It says cozonac right here," he says, and pokes a spot on the page.

"That says milk," Erzsébet says.

Aurel crumples up the list and throws it at her. "I thought you liked me."

"I did, before I agreed to help you two shop." Erzsébet sticks the list in Vladimir's pocket and gives Aurel a consolatory pat on the back. "Ready-made cozonac is disgusting, anyway. It's too sweet."

"I guess," Aurel mutters, resting his chin in the soft spot where Vladimir's shoulder and neck meet.

This doesn't stop Aurel from asking for chocolate cozonac ten more times as they traverse the supermarket, garnering stares from strangers as Vladimir stops to readjust Aurel's weight or point at something for Erzsébet to pick up. Vladimir doesn't blame them for staring; he's carrying Aurel on his back because the supermarket's door isn't wide enough for his wheelchair, Erzsébet is smoking and ranting about her ex-but-not-really-ex boyfriend, and Aurel is barefoot and whining about cozonac like a toddler. By the time they reach the small selection of fruit, Aurel's given up on asking and is making his best attempts at subliminal messaging – everything he says has "cozonac" slipped clumsily in.

"Shut up about cozonac," Vladimir says. "I _said_ no."

"You suck," Aurel says, slapping the side of Vladimir's head.

"Hey, shut up for a second," Erzsébet says. She points to something on the shelves in front of them. "What the fuck is that?"

In a plastic bin sit a dozen small, round fruits covered in coarse brown fur, like a peach but worse. Erzsébet picks one up and scratches at the skin with her thumbnail.

"It says they're…kiwi?" Vladimir says, gesturing to the label on the bin. "Sadik's talked about them before."

"Let me see." Aurel takes the kiwi from Erzsébet, turning it over in his hands. He peels up a bit of the skin at the top, revealing a pale green inside. "Vladi, you have to buy me one," he says, shoving it into his brother's face. "It's green!"

Vladimir makes a face. "It's probably gross."

"I bet Eliot's had one," Erzsébet says, grabbing two other kiwis and placing them in the basket. "He's had everything."

"Yeah," Vladimir says. There's a bitter taste in his mouth. "I bet he has. Put them back. They're too expensive."

"I'll buy them." Erzsébet takes a few crumpled bills from her pocket and holds them up for proof.

"We don't need them. You don't even know if you _like_ them." Vladimir tries to take the kiwis out of the basket and Erzsébet jerks it away from him.

"Stop being a communist and let me buy the kiwis," she says.

Aurel doesn't let go of the kiwi while they wait in the checkout queue, asking Vladimir a hundred questions about the fruit he can't answer. Between fielding Aurel's questions and listening to Erzsébet talk about how sweet Roderich is, he feels someone else watching him. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the woman behind them staring. He glances back at her, hoping it will be enough to scare her off; she doesn't look away. Vladimir meets her eyes as a last resort. She smiles a tight-lipped smile and gestures to Aurel.

"He's a little old to be carried around, isn't he?" she asks. There is a toddler clinging to her dress, looking at Vladimir and Aurel like they're animals in a zoo.

"He's only ten," Vladimir says.

"I'm _almost_ eleven," Aurel adds, twisting around to see the woman.

"That's not helping," Vladimir says.

The woman pats her son's head. "If he were mine, I'd make him walk."

"He's not your problem."

"How's he ever going to grow up if you carry him around everywhere?"

"Well, he's paralyzed, so I don't think walking is really an option."

The woman's face pales. He can already hear the apologetic, _oh-you-poor-boys_ on her tongue.

"And my mom's been dead for seven years!" Aurel announces loud enough for the entire store to hear, looking to Vladimir for approval.

Well, at least the woman isn't pitying Aurel for his paralysis anymore.

"Yeah, our mom is dead, so mind your own fucking business," Vladimir says, turning his back on the woman so he doesn't say anything worse. Erzsébet tries her best to disappear, but Aurel has no shame in howling with laughter and Vladimir can't help cracking a grin. The clerk pretends not to notice them and only mumbles a thank-you when Vladimir shoves a couple twenties over the counter. Erzsébet hands Vladimir and Aurel bags of groceries without looking at them and walks out before them, staying several steps ahead until they're far from the supermarket.

"That was the most embarrassed I've been in a long time," Erzsébet says as she slows down to join them.

"It could've been worse," Vladimir says. "Good job, Aurel. Way to tell everyone our mom died."

"I thought it was funny." Aurel wraps his arms around Vladimir's neck in either a tight hug or a headlock.

"Has it really been seven years?" Erzsébet asks.

It might as well have been seven hundred years ago. "Yeah. Fuckin' weird, isn't it?" Vladimir says.

Erzsébet doesn't say anything for a while. When she does speak, she puts her hand on Vladimir's wrist to let him know she means it. "Are you okay?" she asks.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Vladimir says.

"I don't know," she says. "After Christmas and everything, I don't want you to think you're alone –"

"I'm fine, Erzsi. I'm over it."

"Right. Sorry." Erzsébet doesn't quite withdraw from the conversation, though. She looks at him, waiting for something he's not ready to give anyone.

She caught a glimpse of it over Christmas – the torrent of anger and fear he carries beneath his skin, the little control he has over himself – and he isn't prepared to show her or anyone else the rest. It took a long time for him to get himself under control, and he'd rather not start over. He's doing better now, isn't he? He hasn't fought with Sadik in a while, and his grades are up from fives and sixes to sevens, eights, and one nine. He's back on speaking terms with Eliot, he's taking care of Aurel, and he's helped Erzsébet through seven breakups. He's carved a new normal from the old.

(Hasn't he?)

Erzsébet unlocks the door to Vladimir's apartment and sets the groceries down on the kitchen table. Vladimir pretends he doesn't see the pitiful glance he gets when Erzsébet finds the note on the fridge reminding Vladimir to take Aurel to physical therapy at one. They don't need her sympathy because nothing is wrong with their lives. She's better off saving her pity for Roderich.

"Come bother El with me," Erzsébet says, holding out a kiwi.

Vladimir pushes the fruit away. "I don't know –"

"He's the only one who knows how to eat one of these things."

"Sadik knows how."

"And he's at work right now." Erzsébet gestures to the dark apartment. "Please, Vladimir. I've never had a kiwi in my life. Neither have you. This is a once in a lifetime thing."

"You bought them. It's not my kiwi."

"I'm _sharing,_ Vladimir."

"Wow, I didn't know you knew what the word meant."

"I want to see El, Vladi," Aurel says.

It took almost a month before Eliot spoke to Vladimir. It's taken three for them to be sort of comfortable in each other's company again. Eliot doesn't like being alone in a room with him and he won't share a cigarette with him after school anymore. He speaks around things, as if he doesn't want to offend Vladimir. And when Vladimir told him about his accidental, almost-kiss with Toris (thinking Eliot was the only one he could trust), Eliot looked as if he wanted to punch Vladimir and made up a weak excuse to leave.

He isn't sure where he stands with Eliot; he's also never tasted a kiwi and his curiosity is outweighing the uncomfortable strain on their relationship. He agrees with a sighed _fine_ and pulls Aurel up onto his back.

Erzsébet runs downstairs and knocks before Vladimir can even make it down a step. By the time he reaches Eliot's door, it's being pulled open.

"Hey Erzsi," Eliot says with a smile that wavers when he sees Vladimir. "What's going on?"

Erzsébet holds up the two kiwis. "How do we eat these fucking things?"

Eliot's eyes flicker with excitement and he takes a kiwi from her. "No way," he says, almost breathless at the sight of the fruit. "Who did you kill to get this?"

"We found them at the store," Aurel says. "Hi, Eliot."

"Oh, hey, Aurel. Didn't notice you." Eliot turns into his apartment, welcoming them inside with a wave of his hand. "Jesus Christ. I haven't had a kiwi since I went on vacation in Italy in like, 1982."

They follow Eliot into his kitchen, where he takes a plate and a knife from the dishrack and slices the kiwis in half. He grabs four spoons from a drawer and doles out a kiwi half and a spoon with a paper napkin to each of them. Eliot's fingers brush Vladimir's hand for an instant and he pulls his hand back as if he'd touched a hot stove. There's a strange, embarrassed look on his face as he sits down at the table with them and shows them how to wedge the spoon beneath the skin of the kiwi and scrape out the fruit.

"Thank God Ceausescu's dead," Eliot says, holding the kiwi up in a toast. "Maybe you all will get to have pineapples, too."

"Don't jinx it," Erzsébet says.

The kiwi is far more tart than Vladimir hoped it would be, with a hint of sweetness that almost makes up for it. Eliot says the kiwis in Italy are much better. Erzsébet asks about the long-ago Italian vacation – Eliot's life is the stuff of TV and movies to them. He sighs and says it isn't much of a story.

"My father worked with this Italian director in '81, and we went to go stay with him for the summer in '82," Eliot says with remarkable nonchalance, as if his upbringing was nothing special. "There wasn't much to do there, actually. The director didn't have any children, so everything in the house was so…sterile. Like a museum.

"I spent a lot of that summer waiting for it to be over," he says. "Which is so stupid. I didn't know I wasn't ever going to go on vacation again. I wasted that summer. God, I watched hours of TV. In Italian, too. I can't understand a word of Italian. I read every book in that stupid house. I slept a lot, too. Anything to make time move faster." He laughs to himself as he tears apart the kiwi's skin. "I sound like such a spoiled brat."

"You didn't know any better," Vladimir says.

Eliot glances up. He meets Vladimir's eyes and for a moment, it feels as if they are the only two people in the room. "Yeah," he says. The bridge between him and Vladimir collapses. "I guess I didn't. I remember my dad got so mad at me for not doing anything. He made this big speech at dinner about how life was fleeting, and it was a real gift to be able to go to Italy and I should appreciate what time I had there. Sometimes, I feel like he knew he was going to die. Like he'd already set the date in his head."

"That's what Vladimir says about Mom," Aurel says. "I don't remember because I was three."

Eliot puts a hand over his mouth. "Fuck, Vladimir, I didn't even think about – that's Monday, isn't it? Fuck, man, I'm so sorry –"

"It's okay," Vladimir says. "Aurel already told the whole supermarket about it. I don't care."

He does, though. Vladimir can lie all he wants, but he cannot trick himself into believing it doesn't hurt. He knows he isn't fooling Eliot, either. Eliot knows the loss Vladimir is living with. He's dealt with it better, though. Eliot's grief comes out through violence and destruction – smashing VHS tapes, burning posters. His father's death has gone up in smoke and taken the anguish with it. Vladimir's grief receded into him. It has no outlet, so it rots inside him, fermenting into worse things.

They don't stay in Eliot's kitchen for much longer. The awkwardness between him and Vladimir becomes far too tangible. There is almost a sigh of relief when Vladimir says they should probably go home and make dinner before Sadik gets off work. Eliot thanks Erzsébet profusely for the kiwis and gives Aurel a few pieces of German chocolate wrapped in gold foil that his mother sent over. To Vladimir, he only says that he'll see him on Tuesday.

* * *

 _april 29, 1990_

"I think I miss my mom."

Erzsébet smiles the sort of smile given out at funerals. She gives the cigarette to Vladimir; it tastes of the artificial, vague fruit flavor of her lip gloss. When she takes the cigarette from his fingers, she meets his eyes, wordlessly asking for him to continue.

Vladimir rests his elbow on the windowsill, puts his chin in his palm. and looks down toward the tiny lot behind their apartment complex. His mother's red Dacia (a wedding gift from Ivan, who moved her name ahead in the registry by five years) used to sit beneath the streetlight. He never saw it leave that morning. He swallows the lump in his throat and looks away.

"She would know what to do," Vladimir says.

"What to do about what?" Erzsébet asks.

"I don't know. Everything."

Erzsébet taps the ashes off the end of the cigarette. "Is this about El?"

Vladimir glances toward Erzsébet. Her face is half illuminated by the stale light from the streetlights below them, and the other half is clouded over by the darkness of her room. Her vivid green eyes become a ruddy brown in the dark. She puts her hand over his and he resists the urge to pull away.

"I don't know why I'm talking to you," Vladimir says.

Erzsébet squeezes his hand. "You woke me up at four a.m. You're going to say something to me if I have to force it out of you."

Sure, Vladimir couldn't fall asleep after hours of dissecting his relationship with Eliot in his head, and he did tap on Erzsébet's window until she got up and helped him in, and he also spent the past hour not saying anything, but that doesn't mean he _has_ to tell her anything, does it?

"El's got it all figured out," Vladimir says. "And I don't. I think he sees me as, like, a little kid. He's always taking care of me and trying to get me to be better and I can't. Like, I can't even get over my fucking mom dying. I can't move past anything."

Erzsébet opens her mouth as if she's going to speak, then stops. She gives Vladimir's hand another squeeze and grinds the cigarette out on the windowsill, then tosses it down to the sidewalk. "First off, your mom dying is a huge deal. It's okay to be upset about it for as long as you want to. Second, Eliot doesn't hate you."

"Do you see how he looks at me? I've seen him give Gilbert nicer looks."

"He doesn't hate you. Trust me."

"Did he tell you something?"

Erzsébet nods. "I, um, I don't think I can tell you what he's said," she says. "But I promise you, he doesn't hate you. He's really angry at himself right now and you're kind of collateral damage."

"I don't even know what to _change_. What does he want from me?"

Erzsébet sighs and turns toward the wall, consulting with her Madonna poster for help just as Natalya looks to her icon of the real Virgin Mary. "Do you listen to anything I say? There isn't anything about you to change," she says. "Eliot doesn't think there's something wrong with you. But if you think this all boils down to your mom, then you could always try working on that. It'd make you feel better."

"I don't even know how to start," Vladimir says.

"Well, you could always be like Eliot and smash up her stuff," Erzsébet says with a laugh that dies when she sees Vladimir isn't sharing in her humor. "Um, I don't know if this will help you, but when my grandmother died, I worked myself through it by talking to her. She left me this pearl necklace and I would hold onto it and talk to it like it was her. And I know she couldn't hear me or anything, but it helped a lot."

"There's a lot I should've said."

"Yeah. That's how it goes."

"Thanks for staying up with me, Erzsi."

"It's no problem. I like you a lot more than you think." She gives his arm a soft punch. "Don't you ever tell anyone I fucking said that."

"I won't. I think I'm going back."

"Yeah. Sleep well, fucker. Hey, can I tell you something?"

"What?"

"You mean a lot to Eliot," she says, looking toward him as if expecting him to finish her sentence.

Vladimir pushes open the window and pulls himself up onto the sill, swinging one foot out onto the fire escape. "I wish he'd tell me that himself," he says.

"I don't think he can."

"Would it fucking kill him to try?" Vladimir says. "Later, Erzsi."

Vladimir goes back to his room, but not to his bed. His thoughts are torrid and volatile – if he went to bed now, he'd only think about worse and worse things until they consumed him. He goes across the hall and eases open the door to Sadik's room. Sadik is turned away from him, his arm laid over a body no longer there. The left side of the bed is untouched, the blankets smoothed and tucked beneath corners. No one has slept there since the night after Katya died, when Vladimir cried himself to sleep in Sadik's arms.

He creeps across the room to the armoire. The armoire is one of the few pieces of furniture to survive the migration of the Braginskys from Ukraine to Romania in the '50s. His mother told him once that it was a gift from a princess, given to their lowly family because her grandfather had helped pull their troika free from a ditch. Natalya claims it was made by their great-grandmother. Ivan says it was made as a wedding gift for his mother. Whatever the armoire's origins, it is no small miracle that it survived two wars, a famine, and an emigration while in the lovably inept hands of the Braginskys.

(In a life before this one, Vladimir would hide within it until the door was pulled open and two rough hands with a black film on them that could never quite be washed away would drag him into the light, toss him over a shoulder, and bring him to the table for dinner.)

The door squeaks as he eases it open and he glances at Sadik with bated breath. His silhouette hasn't moved – Vladimir waits a few extra seconds before returning to the armoire. He reaches into its pitch-black depths, pushing aside coats and shirts until he bumps into the wooden box. Vladimir opens the latch on the front and pushes the lid up, grabbing the first bit of fabric he feels and pulling it free.

Vladimir shuts the door and leaves the room with a tea towel held against his chest. He brings it to the kitchen table, spreads it out, and turns on the lamp overhead. Before him is a pastel blue towel with a bunch of strawberries and a bee embroidered in the lower right corner. One strawberry is only an outline, forever unfinished.

This towel is the last one his mother made. Embroidery was one of the few things she could focus on; she must have stitched hundreds of flowers and birds. The day she started this towel, he sat on the couch beside her, watching TV, and she asked him to pick a pattern from a book Natalya lent her. Vladimir opened it to a page full of fruit and flower designs and pointed to the first one he saw.

His eyes linger on the unfinished strawberry, an odd ghost in the bright, cheery scene. He covers it with his thumb.

"Hi, Mom," he whispers.

Vladimir has thought of what should've been said thousands of times since April 30, 1982. He's cried over what he could not say, over the words that might have been said. And yet he can think of nothing to say to the tea towel. He can't form the awful emotions tumbling around in his head into something real. He stares at the bee and waits for a sigh of relief or a wave of emotions to come over him or whatever it's supposed to feel like to let go of things.

"This is stupid. Erzsi probably just said to talk to you to get me to go home," he says.

The bee – a little lopsided, with one stripe thicker than the rest and a crooked line of dots behind it – looks back at him with its vacant white eyes.

"I don't even know why I care," Vladimir says. "I'm such a fucking girl sometimes."

The bee keeps looking up at him.

"It's a good thing you're not here to see me. You'd be pretty disappointed, wouldn't you?"

He pauses and then realizes he's waiting for a towel to reply.

"Why can't I fucking get over you?" he says, lifting the towel up. "You've been dead forever. Nothing's going to change. So why can't I even think about you without losing it?"

Vladimir returns to April 30, 1982. He is ten years old, almost eleven, and he is taking a math test when the classroom door opens and the office secretary tells Vladimir he's going home with his stepfather. He glances at the clock as he leaves (it was 11:42 a.m.) and wonders if he'd be home in time to watch _Dallas._ When he arrives at the office, he finds a teary-eyed Sadik with Aurel on his hip. Sadik puts his arm around Vladimir and ushers him out to the car. Once Vladimir is sitting in the backseat next to Aurel, Sadik says there has been an accident.

Vladimir had heard the word "accident" used that way once before, when his father was killed.

"You didn't even let me say goodbye." Vladimir crumples up the towel in his palm. "You just fucking drove off. Didn't you think we'd miss you? It's like you didn't even fucking _care_ about me."

 _She didn't know._

He tells himself the same comforting lie he's told himself for seven years because the truth is far worse.

"And all you left me with was fucking towels," he snaps, twisting the towel in his hands. "I fucking need you and I've only got a stupid fucking towel."

(Vladimir understands Eliot for the first time in a while.)

He finds the knotted thread at the bottom of the unfinished strawberry and rips it loose. Stitch by stitch he undoes his mother's work, destroying what she so lovingly made. He doesn't care if the only thing left of Katya is embroidery and memories. She left them – no, _him._ She cast her son out into a world with no parents, no love, and no one to trust but uncertain friends and cold relatives. Katya gave him to the anger that had begun to build in Sadik. She let him go through years and years of hidden bruises and bloody noses.

He deserves to destroy the towel as a small bit of a retribution he will never fully own.

His hands fill with red and green thread as he rips the design apart. It's a slow, unrewarding process, like wandering through a labyrinth. The gentle snapping of torn fabric and thread ring out in the hot, livid silence of the kitchen. Vladimir hears the word "accident" over and over in his mine as he tries to make himself believe in it. He wants nothing more than to know that he is wrong.

A tangled strand of threads wraps around his finger. Vladimir goes to pull his hand free and the threads tighten. It takes a fair amount of struggling and squirming to free himself from its web, and when he does break free, the knot of broken threads refuse to fall flat. They sit in a strange, almost cylindrical lump, defying gravity.

The threads seize and go ramrod straight with a _snap._

Vladimir throws the towel down and scrambles to his feet, backing away until he runs into the wall.

The knot of threads is a few centimeters long, no longer than a pencil. And yet it stands on end, like a compass needle pointing north. In the stale lamplight, he sees the threads begin to unravel from the knot and reach toward him. Some twist into spindly U-shaped strands, while a majority form a swirling shape in the center. The new shape turns over and curls the strands inward toward the spiral, like a hand beckoning him.

It _is_ a hand.

The threads form a left hand, or rather, an outline of one. The hand motions for him to come closer again. Vladimir inches away from the table and grabs a pair of scissors from a drawer, holding them open at arm's length. The hand flinches and curls in on itself.

"What the fuck are you?" he whispers.

One by one, the fingers unfurl. The hand waves.

"Don't be fucking cute with me, demon." Vladimir opens and closes the scissors again; the hand makes a fist. "What are you doing in my mom's…?"

Vladimir's mother was left-handed, too.

"Mom?" he asks, lowering the scissors to his side.

(Vladimir, years later, will realize how bizarre this moment of his life was. He will relay this story dozens of times to his relatives and each time, they will tell him they had no idea how sick he was in 1990. But in this moment, in a dark kitchen filled with violent teen rage, it does not occur to Vladimir that he's living a scene from a horror movie.)

The hand bursts open, waving violently.

Vladimir takes a step toward the towel, keeping the scissors within striking distance. He reaches out his hand and the mass of threads takes it, lacing its fingers through his. It runs its thumb over Vladimir's knuckles. A warm shock runs up Vladimir's arm and into his heart – he'd know his mother's touch anywhere. He drops the scissors and scoops up the towel, pressing it into his chest.

"You were always here?" Vladimir asks, his voice cracking and caving into a watery mess. "What the fuck? Why didn't you fucking do something?"

The hand pats his chest. It holds up a finger and traces the shape of a heart on his skin.

"Fuck, Mom. I love you, too." Vladimir wipes his tears away with his free hand as a heavy guilt crashes into him. "I'm so sorry for everything I just said to you. I didn't mean it. I'm just so mad…Holy fuck, you're a ghost trapped in a towel! Is there more of you?"

He sets the towel down again and starts pulling up the thread near the hand's wrist. As he pulls more thread out an outline of an arm forms, complete with the scar near his mother's elbow. Soon he's eviscerated every strawberry, leaf, flower, and the bee. His mother's arm is tethered to the towel by a single strand of black floss. If he were to pull it out, would the connection break? Would he hurt her?

"I, uh, I think this is the best I can do," Vladimir says.

The hand traces a letter on the table, then another.

 _A-U-R-E-L_

"Oh, fuck, _Aurel_ ," Vladimir says. He'd forgotten they shared a mother – in his mind, Aurel just appeared in the world one day and they'd tolerated each other's existence ever since.

Vladimir gathers up the towel and brings it to his bedroom. Aurel groans something about needing five more minutes. The arm freezes at the sound of his voice. Vladimir lays the towel down on the edge of Aurel's bed and takes his mother's wrist, guiding her to Aurel.

"Look, Mom. Here he is," he whispers as the hand reaches for the still-asleep Aurel. It flinches when its fingers brush Aurel's skin. Slowly, it cups the boy's cheek and brushes his hair out of his eyes. A hint of a smile tugs at the corners of Aurel's mouth.

"I'm so sorry," Vladimir says. "They said he's not going to walk –"

"Shut up, Vladimir," Aurel says, pushing the hand off his face. "What are you doing up?"

Vladimir (once again, unaware he is what should be one of the most horrifying moments of his life) gives Aurel a soft shove. "Hey. Open your eyes."

"Leave me alone."

"You have to see someone."

"Leave me alone."

His mother's hand touches Aurel's arm and, thinking it is Vladimir, Aurel goes to hit it and instead slaps his mattress and a clump of embroidery floss. His eyes fly open and he scrambles away from the arm, pulling his arms in tight to his chest. The hand taps the empty space, searching for Aurel. It brushes his knee; Aurel shrieks.

"Don't scream!" Vladimir hisses.

"Is that a snake?!" Aurel presses himself further into the corner, trying to put any distance between him and the arm.

"Stop _screaming_."

"Where did you get a snake?!" Aurel asks in a slightly lower, still loud, voice.

"You're going to wake up Sadik and it isn't a snake." Vladimir picks up the towel and gives it to Aurel. He takes the corner of it, not quite trusting Vladimir yet. "Don't scream. I don't know how this happened," he says, guiding the arm to Aurel's shoulder.

"Is this Mom's towel?" Aurel says.

"Yeah. I pulled all the thread out of it –"

"What?"

"—and I think I might have accidentally summoned a ghost? Look, it's her arm." Vladimir points to the outline of the scar. "There's the scar from the scythe."

Aurel looks down at the hand on his shoulder without moving. His eyes grow wide and Vladimir can tell he's going to scream again, so he snatches the towel away. Aurel can only stare as the arm drapes itself over his half-brother's shoulder. He starts to speak and stops himself several times.

When he finally does say something, it's a quiet, "What the fuck, Vladimir?"

His mother's hand lashes out and gives Aurel's knee a soft slap.

"I don't think she wants you to say that," Vladimir says.

Aurel reaches out and takes the hand in his. "Sorry, Mom. Wait. How do we know this is Mom?" He pulls the arm away from him. "It could be any ghost. Or maybe a demon! Are you a demon?!" he asks the arm.

The hand traces letters in the air, but neither of the boys can make them out in the dark.

"Do you think she could hold a pencil?" Vladimir grabs a notebook and a pencil from the desk, laying them down on the bed. Aurel gives the pencil to the hand. The strings wrap around it like vines and bring the pencil to the paper, making a few shaky strokes. Vladimir and Aurel alternate between watching the letters appear and looking at each other in pure excitement and confusion.

The hand moves away from the page. _It's good to see you, boys. I miss both of you dearly. But this is a mistake. I don't know how you got me here, Vladik, but you have to let me go. This is not right._

"Let you go?" Vladimir says. "What? No. I haven't spoken to you in seven years. I have so much to tell you."

The hand presses the pencil to the paper. _I should not be here._

"I don't know how. I don't even know what I did," Vladimir says. "I've only ever met one ghost before…oh! Kosta will know how to fix this."

"You've met a _ghost?!_ " Aurel says, holding his head in amazement. "When? Where? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Not important right now. I have to fix this," – Vladimir gestures to the outline of the arm protruding from the towel – "so you need to stay here and cover for me."

"No." Aurel gathers the towel up in his arms. "I'm going with you."

"Stay here." Vladimir goes to snatch the towel away and Aurel curls into himself, hiding the towel beneath his shirt.

"She's my mom, too."

"Yeah, fair. But the ghost lives way out in the countryside –"

"Then carry me. You do it when we go shopping."

"Because that's like, a block away."

Aurel glances up at him. "Then I'll crawl."

Vladimir resists the mounting urge to punch him. "Sadik is going to kill me if he finds out what we're doing."

"You say that all the time and you're still alive," Aurel says.

Vladimir gets up and takes a pair of jeans from the dresser. He pulls on an old sweatshirt and sets aside his better judgment before tossing pants toward Aurel. Aurel bows his head in silent thanks and sets the towel and arm out on the bed. Vladimir tucks the towel in his pocket; the arm sticks out no matter how much he attempts to fold it in. He pulls Aurel onto his back with a heavy sigh and resigns himself to his first big, violent fight with Sadik in months.

"Shouldn't we let her see Sadik?" Aurel whispers in Vladimir's ear as he writes a note explaining that he took Aurel to the park.

"No. He'll wake up."

The arm lunges up at Vladimir, tracing an S on his chest and then a heart.

"We can't, Mom. Sadik will lose his mind if he finds out I did this to you."

The hand makes a fist and gives Vladimir's hip a soft tap.

Vladimir eases his mother's hand back into his pocket. "I'm sorry, Mom. But I want to help you. And getting Sadik involved is only going to make things worse."

"It's just 'cause you don't like him," Aurel mutters as they leave.

"She'll have all the time she wants to see him when he's dead."

* * *

 **a/n:** **and then I said "new chapters starting 4/18/20" you know, like a liar :)**

 **I am so sorry this update is over half a year late! A huge thank you goes out to everyone who has stuck around through that drought. I wish I had your perseverance.**

 **Hopefully I will be returning to a schedule with this fic. We're getting closer and closer to the end now. I've loved this fic for two years and I am so excited to share the ending with you.**

 **Also, if you haven't read the updates I've done to the rest of the story, I would recommend doing so! The fic is still completely comprehensible if you don't go back and reread everything, but a minor subplot point has changed and honestly, my writing style has been honed in since I started writing this and I now have a much better vision for it. It could also serve as a little catch-up for you if you can't remember everything that's going on.**

 **Thank you so much for reading :)**

 **Here's to a new beginning in the middle!**


	14. The Fool

_chapter fourteen / the fool / april 29, 1990_

"Do you think we could keep her?" Aurel asks as he reaches into Vladimir's pocket and pulls the towel out. The arm made of embroidery floss protruding from it lashes out like a snake with its head cut off until its fingers brush Aurel's arm and it slows to a stop, tracing figure eights over his skin.

"No. And stop taking her out." Vladimir snatches up a corner of the towel. "Someone's going to see her."

"No one's looking. What's so wrong about keeping her? If we talk to Dad about –"

"Aurel. It's our mom's _ghost,_ not a stray dog." Vladimir pulls the towel away from him and stuffs it in his sweatshirt pocket. The hand squirms around and he hugs his stomach tight, smothering any movement beneath his arms.

Aurel heaves a sigh and slumps down in his seat with his arms crossed. He doesn't think Vladimir sees him pull his hand free and set it down on the seat. Vladimir watches out of the corner of his eye as Aurel inches his fingers closer to Vladimir and when he's within striking distance, Vladimir puts his leg over Aurel's hand, pinning it to the seat.

Aurel turns and lunges for the towel – Vladimir grabs him by his forehead and holds him out at arm's length. The boy swings at Vladimir to no avail, and his attempt to drag Vladimir's hand off his head ends in his face being smothered in Vladimir's palm. Always the opportunist, Aurel sinks his teeth into the heel of Vladimir's palm; Vladimir jerks his hand away with a curse and Aurel throws himself at the towel once more. Vladimir barely catches him by his collar and sits him upright, sliding to the edge of the seat to get as much distance between them as possible.

"She's my mom, too!" Aurel whines loud enough to draw the attention of a few eyes.

"Shh," Vladimir hisses. "She's a towel. This isn't Mom."

"But she's in there." Aurel makes a third go at the towel – Vladimir pins him up against the window and he melts into sagging shoulders and forced tears.

Vladimir does his best to pretend he doesn't care. It doesn't last long when he sees a tear roll down Aurel's cheek. "We're doing what's best for her," he says without looking at Aurel. "This is a big mistake and we're going to fix it so she doesn't get hurt, okay? I'm doing this because I love Mom."

Aurel smashes the right half of his face up against the window. "We should've told Dad. He'd know what to do."

"Sadik would have lost his mind. And then killed me."

"I'd much rather have Mom than you," Aurel says.

"Okay, well, only one of us is a ghost trapped in a towel right now, so I guess you're stuck with me."

Aurel narrows his eyes. "If _you_ were a ghost, I'd keep you."

"We can't keep Mom's ghost trapped in a towel. That's messed up. And you can't tell Sadik, either," Vladimir adds. "This never happened, okay? It'll be our secret."

Aurel nods in agreement, his eyebrows knitted together in thought. "…Vladi? What if your ghost friend can't get her out? Wouldn't we have to keep her?"

Vladimir doesn't have a clue what they'll do if Kosta can't put Katya's ghost to rest. He's not sure Kosta will be able to do anything. Kosta's been dead since 1918 and he can't figure out how to move on for himself, so the chances of him knowing how to free Katya are close to none. They'd probably be better off getting an exorcism. He doesn't know if exorcisms are expensive. They never seem to go right in the movies, either. He can't imagine the trouble he'd be in if he unleashed hell in their flat. An exorcism will have to be their last resort.

…But he doesn't know if he has any other resorts.

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Vladimir says.

They take another bus to the far reaches of Giurgiu, where the blocks of apartments begin to turn into clusters of houses and factories with rusted roofs. Aurel wraps his arms around Vladimir's neck, Vladimir grabs Aurel's legs, and together they set out into the morning.

The church didn't seem so far outside Giurgiu when Vladimir first came across it; now that he's carrying the physical weight of Aurel and the emotional weight of possibly trapping his mother's ghost in a tea towel, the road stretches out forever before him. Three times he stops by the side of the road to catch his breath and each time Aurel spurs him on with a gentle pat on his hip.

At last the church steeple appears over the treetops, its sharp peak and simple cross a stark contrast against the clear sky. The plots in front of the church have been tilled, the dead sunflowers now broken up and half buried under the earth. The empty fields give them a clear, unflattering view to the church. The winter almost did Saint Bretannio's in – the left side of the building is pulling away from the main body and a large section of the roof has caved in. There are only a few steadfast patches of paint clinging to the walls and the sign that hung over the door now lays face down on the ground. It's one bad storm away from destruction. Aurel clutches Vladimir's neck a little tighter as he starts down the gravel path.

"How did you find this place?" Aurel says.

"Luck, I guess," Vladimir says with a shrug.

"Doesn't look lucky to me. It's creepy. Perfect for you."

The front door of the church is ajar, as though it were expecting them. Aurel digs his fingers into Vladimir's shoulder as he climbs the steps and kicks the door open enough for them to step inside. The interior hasn't suffered much, save for the addition of a pile of boards and shingles from the collapsed roof. Sunlight floods into the church; motes of dust and sleepy moths dance in the pillar of light. Vladimir walks down the aisle, searching for a shape among the shadows. He can't feel Kosta's overbearing presence or see any signs of the ghost. But everywhere he looks, it feels as if there are dozens of eyes staring back at him. Something must be here with them.

Aurel hugs Vladimir even tighter.

"Kosta?" Vladimir calls out. His voice echoes through the room for a long time after.

Aurel tugs on Vladimir's collar. "Vladi, where is he? I can't see him."

"I don't know. He's probably just being weird," Vladimir says. An uneasiness starts to fill his stomach. "Kosta? I need your help!"

They are met with silence. Not the comfortable silence found near secluded creeks and in empty libraries; it's the murky silence heard in dark stairwells and after funerals. The kind of silence that makes the hair on your arm stand up. Vladimir chews on the corner of his lip as he wanders around the abandoned church, promising himself that Kosta will appear any minute. He's trying to be funny. He's trying to scare them. He's probably laughing right now as he watches Vladimir peek behind pews and kick over rotten boards. Kosta is good-hearted; if he knew why they came, he'd be here in an instant.

Wouldn't he?

" _Konstantin!_ " Vladimir shouts so loud it hurts his throat. Aurel flinches and cowers against Vladimir's back, clutching handfuls of Vladimir's jacket. Vladimir shouts the ghost's name over and over until the name sounds wrong, until his voice begins to go hoarse and his legs shake. The last _Kosta_ comes out as little more than a scratchy plea for help and Vladimir sits down on the floor and holds his head in his hands.

Maybe Kosta has moved on.

Vladimir hopes Kosta has moved on.

At the same time he doesn't, because he's got no one left who understands him the way Kosta did. The ghost knew what words to say and how to say them. He helped mend the wounds Vladimir carved in his head and heart. He was an odd, inexplicable piece of Vladimir's life for a few months, and although they didn't know each other for long, Vladimir feels as though he's lost another friend. He can't stand to lose someone else now. Not when things were starting to look up for him for the first time in seven years.

And now he doesn't have a clue what to do with his mother's ghost. He brought her to this world and he isn't sure he'll be able to open the door for her to go. He didn't even mean to bring her here. All he wanted was to fix a problem. All he did was make another one. Vladimir pulls the towel out of his pocket and sets it down in front of him, smoothing it out so the arm lays flat against the floor. The arm pats the floor around it, taking in its new environment. Vladimir takes the hand and leads it to his face. It runs its thumb along his cheekbone.

"I'm so fucking stupid sometimes," Vladimir says with a halfhearted laugh.

Aurel pulls himself to Vladimir's side, resting his head on Vladimir's arm. "You are."

"Thanks. You're pretty stupid, too."

"No, I'm not. Not as dumb as you. Sorry your ghost friend isn't here."

"It's okay. This was such a shit idea, anyway. I mean, what would a ghost know about moving on?"

"I think it was a good idea," Aurel says.

"Yeah, and you're ten. This is something a fucking kid would do." Vladimir grabs the sides of his head and wishes he could smash his skull between his palms. "God. Fuck. We're going to have to tell Sadik. Fuck."

Aurel looks at the arm. "I could tell him that I did it. So he wouldn't get mad at you."

"What if he gets pissed at you? I did this to her. I need to take the hit for this one."

"He won't get mad. Dad likes me."

"I thought he liked me, too. Then Mom" Vladimir pulls the hand away from his face, holding it out in front of him and giving it an accusatory shake, "had to go and die."

It wasn't long after Katya died when Sadik turned on Vladimir. In the beginning, it was cold glares over the dinner table and half an hour lectures. They transitioned into shouting matches around Vladimir's eleventh birthday. He can't remember how old he was when Sadik first hit him. It wasn't anything special, anyway. Everybody's parents hit them at some point.

"I think Dad still likes you," Aurel says. "Just not how he likes me."

"He loves you, Aurel. You're his kid and everything. I'm some fucked-up leftovers to him, some mess he's got to clean up from Mom's first marriage. You don't have to try and make things better for him. I get it."

The hand clasps tight around Vladimir's in what Vladimir assumes is an apology.

Aurel rests his chin in Vladimir's elbow. "Was Mom happy with your dad?"

"I don't remember," Vladimir says softly, as if he were confessing a sin. "I mean, I remember little things, like my birthday and stuff. Nothing important. All my other memories are from photos and people don't ever look sad in those. No one wants to take sad pictures. Wouldn't it be messed up if we took pictures at funerals?"

"…Vladi?"

"Yeah?"

Aurel doesn't say anything for a while. Vladimir puts his arm around him and pushes the towel toward him. He grabs the hand, running his fingers over the threads with his eyes screwed shut, trying so hard to remember the mother that left him. He opens one dark eye, then the other, and looks up to Vladimir.

"Do you promise not to lie?" he says.

"I'd never lie to you."

"It wasn't an accident, was it?" Aurel asks. It's not really a question. He wants it to be, just like Vladimir does.

"I don't know. None of us were there." Vladimir answers too fast, spitting out the same vague sentiment they've held tight to for seven years because no one in their family wants to hear the truth.

April 30, 1982 is riddled with blanks, a thousand unknowns they'll never be able to fill in. The story they've told themselves is a threadbare one: Katya ran a red light in her red Dacia and was struck and almost killed. They don't want to think about why she got in her car that morning when everyone was asleep, without telling anyone she was leaving, or where she was going. It's better to not wonder why Katya, the most cautious driver in Bucharest who followed traffic laws to the letter, would run a red light. It's easiest for them to not acknowledge the apology to Ivan found tucked away in the crumpled car, a simple note with _I'll pay you back for the car someday_ scrawled below a shopping list.

Did she sit in her car while it warmed up, thinking over what she was going to do? How did she not look up to the fourth-floor window where her sons were sleeping? Or feel the ring on her finger? How could she drive off and not look back at the people she left behind?

(It's always easier not to think about it.)

"I, um, know. About her being sad and stuff," Aurel says.

Vladimir has tried so hard to scrub out the memories of his mother sitting on her bed in the dark, completely despondent, and yet they rise to surface, as clear as the days he made them. "After Dad – my dad – died, it got so much worse. Like, before, she'd stare out the window and sit with Dad for hours without talking, but after…" Vladimir glances at the arm sticking out of the towel. "Yeah. Sorry. She probably killed herself."

And although the words are horrible to say, Vladimir's glad he's said them. Someone was going to have to someday.

"I think Dad gets scared because he says you're so much like her," Aurel says as he cradles the arm, letting it wrap around him like a python. "He cried one time about you on the phone. He said it felt like watching Mom die all over again."

"I'm not going to kill myself, Aurel."

"Sure," Aurel says as he draws a circle in the dust on the floor. "I'm just saying what Dad said."

"…Do you think he'll freak out when we bring her back?" Vladimir asks with a nervous smile. "Shit. I can't wait to see the look on his face."

Aurel shrugs. "Maybe he'll be happy to see her."

"Yeah. Maybe," Vladimir says. He doesn't believe Aurel, of course; it's still a nice thought. "Sorry for dragging you out here with me. And for there being no ghost."

"It's fine. I've seen enough ghosts today." Aurel hugs the arm tight to his body, curling himself around the bundle of embroidery floss. "I love you, Mom."

"Hey, don't pull it so tight," Vladimir says as the grabs Aurel's shoulder and tries to pull him open. "You're going to –"

 _"Vladimir!"_

Vladimir and Aurel both flinch at the sound of Vladimir's name, grabbing each other and pulling the other close. Outside, he hears a car door slam shut and gravel crunching and sliding underfoot as someone runs across the lot. He grabs the tea towel and scrambles to his feet, pulling Aurel up onto his back. He looks about the room, searching for a viable escape. There are few places to hide here; he'll have to outrun or outwit them.

He turns toward the back of the church a moment too late. The front door slams against the wall as it is thrown open and Vladimir stops in his tracks. Should he turn around? Or should he wait for the unknown to come crashing into him?

"Jesus Christ, Vladimir," Eliot says.

Vladimir turns on his heels so fast he loses his balance and knocks into a nearby pew. Aurel shrieks and throws his hand out to catch them and Vladimir grits his teeth as the corner of the pew digs into his hip. Eliot watches them from the safety of the doorway – his hair is uncombed and his shoes are undone, as if he'd woken up minutes ago and ran out the door. Behind him, equally as disheveled, stands Toris. The two of them stare at Vladimir and Aurel, waiting for an explanation, and Vladimir and Aurel do the same.

It is Aurel who breaks the palpable tension. "Hi, Eliot," he says with a wave.

Eliot doesn't move.

Vladimir raises his hand and offers a tentative, "Hey."

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" Eliot's words come out in a dangerous cross between fury and panic. "Have you gone completely fucking mental?"

"It's hard to explain," Vladimir says, hiding the towel behind his leg. "Why are you here? Both of you."

Eliot pulls his hair away from his face and lets it fall in front of his eyes, barely restraining himself from tackling Vladimir. "Do you think no one notices when you pull shit like this?"

"What? What, exactly, am I pulling?"

"I'm confused," Aurel says in Vladimir's ear. "Who's the other guy?"

"You ran away on the eve of your mom dying and took Aurel with you! That's messed up, Vladimir!" Eliot says. "Sadik's got everyone he knows out looking for you two. Came to my aunt crying his fucking eyes out. I hoped to God you wouldn't be here, you wouldn't be so goddamn stupid to bring Aurel here and here you are. Of course. Of course you would do this. He's ten, Vladimir!"

"I'm almost eleven," Aurel says.

"You don't understand," Vladimir says. "I don't think you can."

"He's not going to listen to me," Eliot says. "Toris, tell him how fucked up this is."

Toris peeks over Eliot's shoulders. "Um, hey. Good to see you, Vladimir. El wanted me to come look for you two with him. Glad we found you. I don't really know what's going on, but this doesn't seem right."

"What are you hiding behind your leg?" Eliot points to the towel.

"Nothing important." Vladimir crumples it up and tries to pass it to Aurel.

Aurel doesn't notice a towel being shoved into his side. "It's Mom," he says. "Her ghost, actually. Do you want to see her?"

If Vladimir would not go to jail for strangling his half-brother, he would've done it right then and there.

"I can explain but you're not going to believe me." Vladimir holds the crumpled towel out, keeping the arm wrapped up in the cloth. "I took Erzsi's advice and accidentally summoned my mom's ghost –"

"Ghosts aren't _real,_ Vladimir!" Eliot comes over to Vladimir (Toris follows at a safe distance, his eyes jumping from Eliot to Vladimir as he waits for something to go wrong). Eliot snatches the towel away from Vladimir, holding it out of his reach. Up close, Vladimir can see Eliot's eyes are red-rimmed and his skin is flushed in odd patches. As he struggles to meet Eliot's eyes, he notices the hand slipping out of the towel, its spindly fingers reaching for something in the air.

"Oh, fuck," is all he can say before the entire arm falls out.

Eliot glances at the towel and throws it away from him with a gasped _what the fuck is that_ and grabs Vladimir. Aurel berates him for throwing their mom, Vladimir hastily tries to explain what's happened, and Toris grabs a splintered board and approaches the twitching tea towel on the floor. Eliot alternates between prayers in Luxembourgish and begging Toris to back away as Toris slides the board beneath the corner of the towel and lifts it up into the air for everyone to see.

Everyone stares at the arm as it flails about, its fingers curled into angry hooks.

"Okay, just to be sure, everyone else is seeing a whole arm here, right? Not just me?" Toris asks with a slight tremble to his voice.

"That's my mom, asshole!" Aurel pulls hard on Vladimir's collar. "Stop him, Vladi!"

Toris glances at Vladimir. "This is…your mom?" He gives the board a little shake.

Vladimir's face is burning. Aurel feels a thousand times heavier than he was a moment ago. His palms are so slick Aurel's legs could slip right out of them if he didn't have a death grip on the boy. He can't say anything, so he offers a small nod in reply.

"What did you do, Vladimir? _"_ Eliot asks, his voice no louder than whisper.

"Okay. Wow. I think I'm having an episode right now, but let's get this figured out first," Toris says. "Um, what exactly do you want to do with this? Her, I mean."

"That's why I came here. I thought the ghost here would know what to do," Vladimir says. "We were going to take her back to my stepdad."

"You can't take that back to Sadik," Eliot says.

"Why not?" Aurel says.

"Aurel. That's not your mom. That's an arm made of thread. That's a textbook fucking demon. You should burn that or drown it in holy water or something," Eliot says to Vladimir.

"It's my mom, El. I'm not going to burn it," Vladimir says.

"What weird shit did you do to even make that happen?"

"Nothing. I got mad and started ripping up one of her tea towels and that came out of the thread."

"So she's _angry?"_ Eliot's eyes grow wide. "Put that down, Toris!"

"She's not angry," Vladimir says.

"You ripped her up! Of course she's angry."

"What do you know about my mom?"

Eliot points in the direction of the towel. "Stop calling that your mom! That is not a person!"

"But she's in there," Vladimir says.

"No, she isn't!" Eliot slaps Vladimir's chest so hard Vladimir takes a step backward to keep his balance. Eliot draws his hand up to his chest, looking down at the floor. His handprint on Vladimir's chest stings – he feels his pulse where Eliot's palm struck him.

Vladimir's glad he's holding on to Aurel, or he would've thrown himself at Eliot. "What is your fucking problem with me?" he says as the urge to deck Eliot almost takes over.

"You're not only hurting yourself," Eliot says. "You're hurting everybody around you."

"What are you talking about? I'm not hurting anyone! I'm trying to fix this huge problem that I've made, and _you're_ getting in the way."

"What about your family? Aurel?"

"My family doesn't know what's going on, Sadik will be fine, and hey, Aurel, am I hurting you?" Vladimir glances over his shoulder.

"I don't think so," Aurel says.

Vladimir looks back at Eliot. "He doesn't think so. I'm not hurting anyone, El. You're overreacting."

Eliot won't meet Vladimir's eyes. "You're hurting me."

"Oh, really? I thought you didn't care if I died," Vladimir snaps. "Yesterday I meant shit to you."

"I care about you, Vladimir. I care about you so much that you can't fucking see it!"

"Um, Vladimir? Do you know why your mom's unraveling?" Toris asks.

The bundles of thread are untangling from each other, twisting and turning as the arm loses its shape. They reach out for Vladimir and Aurel, straining so hard a few threads snap and go limp. Eliot grabs Vladimir's arm, pulling him back toward the door. The single strand of floss tethering the mass to the towel trembles; in an instant, it breaks free from the towel. What was once the arm and is now a boiling, writhing clump of embroidery floss flies across the room toward Vladimir and Aurel. Toris reaches for it a second too late. Vladimir brings his arm up to protect his face.

It falls short and hits the floor.

Eliot screams and sinks to his knees, clutching his face.

Vladimir doesn't remember how they got to Toris's car from there. It's as if he fell asleep standing in the church and woke up in the backseat of Toris's car. He glances out the window – they're speeding down the gravel road toward Giurgiu – and then looks beside him to find Aurel crying into his palms. Vladimir wants to reach over and comfort him but can't summon up the energy to. He feels as if he hasn't slept in days and then ran a few kilometers and collapsed here.

"…hand me the shirt beside you?" Toris says over his shoulder.

Vladimir looks at him. "What?"

"The shirt. Beside you."

Vladimir pushes himself up in his seat, grabbing the crumpled white t-shirt on the seat next to him. He hands it up to Toris – Eliot snatches it away from him and buries his face in it. Vladimir starts to ask what his deal is.

Then he sees the blood on Eliot's palm. It seeps through the gaps in his fingers, circling his knuckles. It drips from his chin onto his shirt, leaving teardrop shaped stains.

"You're bleeding," Vladimir says, his voice rising what would be an embarrassing amount if anyone were paying attention to it.

Eliot doesn't bother looking at him. "I'm going to kill you, Vladimir."

Toris reaches over and puts his hand on Eliot's arm. "Hey. It'll be okay. Keep pressure on it."

"Why…Why are you bleeding?" Vladimir says.

"Are you being serious?" Toris says. "Are you okay?"

"He hurt Mom," Aurel says through a sob.

"Your mom hurt _me."_ Eliot pulls the t-shirt away from his right eye. There are three thin gouges beneath his eye, curling toward his ear, as if an animal raked its claws over his skin. Blood spills over the ragged flesh and onto the bruised skin surrounding the scratches.

Vladimir's thoughts explode like someone slamming their hands down on a piano. "I, um, I don't remember? Are you okay?"

"I told you to stop fucking around with ghosts," Eliot says as he presses the t-shirt to his face. "Of course it's me that got hurt. Everything always falls back on me."

"It's not worth getting upset about right now." Toris takes Eliot's hand – Eliot holds on to it as if it were his only anchoring point to the real world.

"The towel? My mom's thread arm did that?" Vladimir asks. Everything is far too loud (the drone of the engine, the song on the radio, Aurel's choked sobs, his heartbeat in his ears) and he can't understand why Eliot's bleeding, how they got here, what's happened to his mom. His vision turns murky at the thought of how much blood Eliot's losing.

"What's going on, Vladimir?" Toris says.

"I don't – El, I'm so sorry – I can't think," he says, leaning back against his seat.

Vladimir closes his eyes for only a second to gather his thoughts. When he opens them, the car is stopped and Toris is applying butterfly bandages to the marks on Eliot's face. Toris's brow is furrowed in concentration and Eliot is looking down at Toris's chest, his face void of any emotion. As Toris reaches for another bandage, he meets Eliot's eyes. He peels the paper backings off the bandage and sticks it beneath Eliot's eye. His hand lingers on Eliot's face for a moment too long.

"It's kind of cute," Toris says.

"I got fucking mauled by a ghost. It's not cute." Eliot smiles anyway.

"Well, I think it is."

Toris leans in and Eliot meets him halfway.

Vladimir is being held up by someone, their arm hooked around him. He can tell he's being yelled at, but the words roll off of him. Someone says Vladimir's drunk. A second voice corroborates; their story of finding Vladimir in a gas station doesn't quite fit with the first voice's. A cold hand grabs Vladimir's jaw and tilts his head up to the light. The light burns Vladimir's eyes and he sees a thousand eyes open from the center of the light, a thousand slitted pupils turned toward him. He opens his mouth to scream and no sound comes out. Fingers pull his hair away from his face and then he's being pulled somewhere, his feet moving without him telling them to.

It is the middle of the night and he is sweating, his entire body burning up beneath the blankets. Vladimir kicks the sheets off of him and pushes himself upright. His legs shake as he walks to the bathroom and turns on the sink. He cups his hands beneath the water and pours it over his face, half aware that he's spilling most of the water on the floor and too feverish to care. He sits down in the bathtub, pressing himself into the cold walls.

"Vladimir?" Someone knocks on the door and comes in a second later. "Fucking took you long enough to come around. What are you doing?"

"I'm sick," Vladimir says. "I have a fever."

He hears Sadik come to him, a soft groan escaping him as he kneels beside the tub. He puts the back of his hand to Vladimir's forehead. "You're a little hot," he says. "Do you want to go lie on the couch and I'll make you some tea?"

Vladimir is sitting on the couch with a mug in his hands, staring at the wall. Sadik sits beside him – he reaches over and tucks a stray strand of hair behind Vladimir's ear. There are a million words that should be said and none of them find their way out. Instead, Sadik sinks into the couch and scratches his stubble, waiting for their relationship to fix itself.

"You scared me," he says.

Vladimir nods and brings the mug to his mouth. The liquid inside is lukewarm and tastes of milk and cinnamon. "I think I keep blacking out. Am I going to die?"

"No. You've got a fever and you've been conscious this entire time," Sadik says. "Did you hear me? You really scared me with what you did today. Thank Allah you have friends who know where you like to hide."

"I'm sorry I didn't let Mom see you," Vladimir says. "I don't think that was Mom, actually. She wouldn't have hurt El."

"Vladi. Don't make me tell you again: there's no ghost. And El got attacked by your friend's cat, remember?"

Vladimir nods, slowly. He doesn't remember anything. "El kissed Toris in the car."

"I know, Vladi. You've said that three times now."

"I don't hate him for it. I want him to be happy."

"That's very kind of you." Sadik pats Vladimir's shoulder and Vladimir cringes so much that tea spills over the rim of the mug and over his fingers.

Warm, golden sunlight fills the room, gently rousing Vladimir from a dream he can't recall. Vladimir ended up in his bed, somehow, with a wet washrag draped over his forehead and a shirt he wasn't wearing earlier stuck to his skin. He blinks a few times, straining to adjust to the light, and pushes himself up in bed. His head crashes into a shelf, sending a shower of framed icons and saint statuettes onto his stomach.

He doesn't have a shelf over his bed and their family icons were packed away with Katya's things. He picks up a statuette – a tiny, delicate Virgin Mary holding an even tinier Jesus – then looks up at the bottom of the shelf. Is this Sadik's idea of revenge for yesterday? Is this a warning? How did he even build the shelf without Vladimir waking up?

"Be careful," says the silhouette at the foot of Vladimir's bed.

The statuette leaves Vladimir's hand before he can process who's there. It strikes their chest and falls to the floor with a sharp clatter. They laugh and draw closer to Vladimir – Vladimir reaches for another statue as he scrambles away from them.

"What are you doing? It's me," they whisper. Their voice is dark and heavy, nothing like Sadik's light, grainy tone.

"Sadik?" Vladimir holds out a figure of Saint Peter like a gun.

"It's me." They scrunch up their face in confusion. "Konstantin?"

As soon as his name is spoken, the shadows peel away from Kosta. The ghost offers Vladimir a tentative smile. He's missing most of his scars and his skin is opaque, perhaps even a bit sunburnt. His hand doesn't pass through Vladimir's. There is no weariness etched into his face – he looks _alive,_ with blood running in his veins and air in his lungs. Every part of him glows with a life unknown to Vladimir.

"You must've hit your head hard to forget me," Kosta says with a smile.

"Am I dead?" Vladimir presses his fingers into his cheek; he can't tell if they're phasing through him or if his skin stretches more than he thought it would.

"Thank God you aren't. I'm sorry I couldn't come earlier, I had to move the sheep out to the other pasture. I ran all the way here." Kosta sits down on the edge of Vladimir's bed. "How are you?"

"How did you get in my flat?"

Kosta motions to the small window on the opposite wall where Aurel's posters and drawings should be tacked up. There isn't a bed beneath the window, either. A plain dresser with a bowl and pitcher stands where Aurel's things should be. Kosta rises from the bed and puts his foot up onto the dresser, pulling himself up to the window. He stares at Vladimir, waiting for him to remember.

"This isn't my flat," Vladimir says.

Kosta slides down from the dresser and kneels beside Vladimir. "You poor thing. That fever's made you paranoid. This is your home, Vladimir. You've lived here all your life."

Vladimir starts to ask a thousand questions – Kosta presses his finger to Vladimir's lips. "I love you, Vladimir," he says.

He tilts his head down and places a soft, longing kiss on Vladimir's lips. Vladimir's heart stops and despite his body screaming for him to jerk away, he finds himself unable to move. He grabs fistfuls of the blankets and wills himself to move, to fight back from this unending nightmare, and yet his body refuses. Kosta pours himself into Vladimir, kissing him as if their lives depended on it. When he breaks away, there's a sly glimmer in his eyes and an even more devious grin on his lips. He knows what he's done.


End file.
